


Cross Over

by alternatealto



Category: House M.D., Stargate SG-1
Genre: Crossover, James Wilson (House M.D.) Lives, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatealto/pseuds/alternatealto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson have been on the road for months, and Wilson's cancer is clearly getting worse.  There's one last place he'd like to see before he dies: but the journey there will involve him and House in something far stranger than either of them could possibly imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Facing the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> A re-post of a story that's been on my LJ for a little while now. Set after the last episode of _House, M.D._ , with House and Wilson still on the road after Wilson's terminal cancer diagnosis.
> 
>  _Stargate SG-1_ fans, please note: This is primarily a _House, M.D._ story, with the canon Stargate characters playing important, but relatively small, roles. I've taken some liberties with the _Stargate_ timeline in bringing it up to the current day, and giving Samantha Carter a rank and position you might not expect. I have also played slightly fast and loose with the known abilities of the Tok'ra, although as far as I can tell there is nothing in the SG-1 universe that makes what happens here impossible.

* * * * *

_He’d been a fugitive for a long time now, and he knew they had to be closing in._

_It was frustrating, having to stay so carefully hidden, making sure even his unwitting host didn’t know he was there. And now he was going to have to risk finding another hiding place – he’d peeked out while they were shopping yesterday, and he was nearly certain he’d spotted one of the searchers._

_He wouldn’t exactly miss his host – not only had they never exchanged a single word (for obvious reasons), but the man was a hard drinker and a noisy and nasty drunk. The fugitive wouldn’t miss the alcohol fumes, the yelling, or the smashing furniture. He was pretty sure the guy’s girlfriend felt the same way – she hadn’t been coming over nearly as much._

_He’d been waiting tonight, biding his time. Finally, it looked like he might be able to slip out and move on without being noticed. His host was heading for the bathroom – it was probably his best opportunity._

_Almost as soon as the bathroom door swung closed, he took his chance and leaped . . ._

* * * * * 

As was more and more often the case recently, they’d left the road early to hunt up a motel and a place to get food. Last night’s motel had been one of those non-chain, family-run affairs that are either really good or so bad you hit the road as soon as you can in the morning, just to get away. In this case, they’d been out the door by six a.m.

They could have pushed on instead of stopping for the night, but the amount of time Wilson could take on the bike was noticeably shorter lately. Neither of them had said anything about it – House had simply taken to following the other man’s lead, letting Wilson set the pace for both of them. Privately, he gave it another week, ten days at most, before they ended up selling the motorcycles and buying a car to continue their adventures. Out here in the western part of the U.S. the towns were spread farther apart than they were in the east.

The sign for the Apple Inn – a bright, freshly painted candy-apple-red apple bearing the word “INN” in bold white – revolved slowly at the top of the pole outside the motel. They pulled into the tidy parking lot, Wilson already smiling when he took off his helmet and looked at the cheerful red and white flowers planted on either side of the walk that led to the entrance. 

“This definitely looks better than the place we stayed last night,” he remarked.

“That wasn’t a place, that was a dump,” House replied. “If it hadn’t been forty miles to the next town with a motel . . .”

“Well, we won’t be going back there,” Wilson said, starting up the walk. 

He’d taken to making remarks like that more and more often – a kind of gallows humor that House had actually found funny at first. Now, as it became more realistic, it was less funny. House pressed his lips together, then followed Wilson into the lobby.

The woman at the reception desk was almost a caricature of someone’s grandmother—short, plump, and pink-cheeked, dressed in a loose, comfortable pink-and-grey outfit, with silver hair in a fluffy permanent and a set of gold-toned reading glasses on a black cord around her neck. House could nearly smell the lavender. 

Then he realized he _could_ smell the lavender; there was a bowl of potpourri on the desk. He poked a finger in and stirred it a bit. Wilson had picked up a small descriptive brochure from the desk and was flipping through it while he opened negotiations for a room.

“Non-smoking, please, and on the ground floor. My partner,” – House had to repress a twitch of surprise, this was something else that Wilson had started doing lately, and that House wasn’t used to yet – “has difficulty with staircases.” House hefted the cane, as if she might not have seen him using it to hobble in the door. 

“That’s no problem, this early in the afternoon,” the woman assured them with a placid smile. Even her voice was grandmotherly. “We have one with the king-size bed, or one with the two full-size.”

“The king-size, please,” Wilson told her, and House nearly choked trying not to react. They’d never – “And could we have the wireless key?” Wilson went on. 

“Of course; I’ll write it on the receipt for you, dear. The room’s $49.95; with tax that comes to $53.45. Cash, or credit card?” Wilson handed over his card, signed the slip, and took the receipt and two keys for room 137. “Just about half-way along on the right hand side, dear, and just call the desk here if there’s anything you need. Breakfast is complimentary, it’s served here in the lobby from five-thirty to ten in the morning.” She handed Wilson two slips of paper. “Give them these when you come in tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Wilson smiled at her. “Speaking of food, is there a place in town you could recommend for dinner?” 

“Well, there’s Henry’s Bar and Grille at the intersection of Main Street, where the traffic light is. Or there’s Papa Gatto’s Pizza, two blocks past the light on the left. If it was me, I’d go to Henry’s, they have a bigger menu.”

“How’s their beer?” House inquired. 

“Goodness, I wouldn’t know, I don’t drink beer. I think they have it mostly in cans.” 

“Thanks,” Wilson said again, and turned to lead the way out of the lobby.

“So,” House said as they walked back to the bikes, “one king-size bed. I knew you’d eventually succumb to my sexual charms.” He leered at the other man.

“Yes, you’ve uncovered my evil plot to ravish you in your sleep,” Wilson agreed. “I—” he stopped suddenly, his eyes widening, and began to cough. 

House dropped his cane and grabbed for Wilson’s hands to keep him upright as the coughing went on, Wilson’s breath coming in hard wheezing gasps in between the spasms. He was getting pale, House noticed; his expression becoming increasingly panic-stricken as the coughing didn’t ease off and he found it harder and harder to get enough air. He clutched at House’s hands with a desperate grip.

“It will stop. It will. Try to relax, you use more oxygen when you’re tensed up this way.” House kept his voice level, calm. Mentally, he was revising his previous timetable. At the next large city they came to, the bikes were history. This was the third time in two weeks that Wilson had had one of these sudden coughing seizures – luckily, all three had happened when the two of them were off the bikes. The thought of something like this happening while Wilson was riding . . . He held on tighter as Wilson doubled over, coughing and coughing and _coughing_. 

It went on for much too long. Finally, Wilson was able to draw something like a normal breath without setting off another spasm. He panted, quick and hard, still clinging to House, who kept encouraging him. “Right. That’s better. See if you can slow down a bit and breathe a little deeper.” Wilson shook his head, the panicked look returning. “Can’t . . . _can’t!_ Oh . . . god . . . House,” he gasped. “It . . . it _hurts_ . . .”

 _This is it,_ House thought. _The beginning of the end._

* * * * * 

 

Once they were in their room, Wilson’s reason for wanting the king-size bed became suddenly clear. Since the motel’s rooms were all the same size, the king-size bed took up less space than two full beds, leaving room for an easy chair in addition to the usual desk and desk chair; Wilson had obviously paid attention to the pictures in the motel brochure. House installed him in the easy chair with instructions to stay put while House moved the bikes and brought in the saddlebags. The fact that the other man was still far too pale and didn’t even make a pretense of arguing with him worried him more than the coughing fit had done.

Limping back in with the second set of saddlebags, he found that Wilson hadn’t moved to start unpacking, even though House had brought Wilson’s stuff in before his own. He was still sitting in the easy chair, staring ahead of him with a look House recognized from that night Wilson had spent on his couch months ago, and the several days that had followed it. Here it was, he realized again: the end of their relatively carefree time on the road. That they’d both known it was coming didn’t make it any easier to take now it was suddenly here.

He dumped his own saddlebags on the bed, and Wilson jumped, one hand going to his chest. House thought for a second he was going to start coughing again, but he only sighed slightly and pushed himself up from the chair to begin unpacking, moving with the careful slowness of someone who suddenly felt tired and frail. Once he had everything where he wanted it, he sat down again and leaned his head back with his eyes closed, panting slightly.

“We start down tomorrow,” House told him. “There’s no point to sticking to the high country any more. We’ve been up here for three months, you’re as acclimated as you’re going to get, and you need the extra oxygen.”

“Okay,” Wilson agreed. He opened his eyes, and the weariness in them was a sharp contrast to his good humor when they’d arrived at the motel. “You’re probably right – ” he broke off at House’s frown “—okay, you’re definitely right. You always are. But I still want to see Taos first.”

“What part of ‘down’ didn’t make it through your ears into your brain? You’ve been the one saying we should go to Taos instead of Denver because Taos is almost two thousand feet higher up. Now you need _more_ air pressure, not less. We need a lower altitude – _you_ need a lower altitude. Or has it escaped you that you had this coughing attack not too long after we came over an eleven-thousand-foot pass?”

“I know. I know. But I’ve been looking forward to Taos since we started south from Montana, you know that. And really – ” Wilson’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, “how much difference will it make? It’s a two-day ride from here, the way we’ve been traveling lately – and it’s still three thousand feet lower than where we are now. Two more days, three more, then we can roll all the way down to sea level if you want. Do you really think it’s that much to ask?”

“Do _you_ really want another of those coughing fits?” House asked, frustrated. “Every time, they’re hitting you harder and it’s taking you longer to recover.”

“They’re going to get worse no matter where we are! It’s the normal progression of the disease.”

House turned away, gripping his cane tightly. “Okay,” he said at last. “Taos. Then we head for Kansas, or Nebraska, or someplace boring with plenty of oxygen in the air. And we sell the bikes and get a car.”

He expected Wilson to object to this, but all he said was a quiet, “That’s . . . a good idea, House. And thank you. I – ”

“Shut up.”

Wilson sighed. Then he said, “Give me a few more minutes, and I’ll be ready to go find some food.”

“I’ll get something and bring it in.”

“No. I’m starting to feel a little better. I’d like to go with you, just let me rest a while longer.”

House turned back to look at him. There was definitely a bit more color in Wilson’s cheeks than there had been. “Ten minutes. I’m starving.”

“I’ve still got some trail mix.”

“Starving for _food_ ,” House clarified. Wilson smiled at him and closed his eyes again.

 

* * * * * 

A good bit later, House was using a piece of garlic bread to soak up the last of the juices from what had been an excellent sirloin. The steaks you got in the west, he’d noticed, were so much better than the eastern variety that it was hard to believe they came from the same species of animal. Wilson had decided on the homemade meatloaf with mashed potatoes, gravy, and applesauce. More and more, House had noticed, he was opting for softer foods, things that were easy to swallow. Tonight he was simply picking at his meal – his plate was three-quarters empty, but that was only because House had eaten nearly half of it himself.

“Don’t like the meatloaf?” House asked.

Wilson looked up from making criss-cross patterns with his fork in the mashed potatoes. “It’s fine. Just . . . not too hungry, I guess.”

“You ate three bites of your burger at lunch, and I got all but about five of your fries.”

“I finished the milkshake, at least,” Wilson pointed out. 

“Yeah, because you could actually get that down. Tell me. How hard is it to swallow?”

Wilson looked away, then back at his companion. “Some days are worse than others.”

“And this isn’t one of the good ones. That coughing fit didn’t help, did it?”

Wilson shrugged, still not meeting his eyes.

“You need more calories,” House told him. “If you can’t eat them, drink them.” He caught the waitress’ eye and ordered Wilson another beer. 

In spite of their hostess’ comment, not all the beer served at Henry’s was canned. There was a respectable variety of choices on draft, including a nice sampling of the region’s microbrews. Wilson had become fond of experimenting with local beers during their time in the moutains, and House had to admit that a lot of them were great with food – although a waste of money if you were just looking to get drunk. Wilson smiled slightly, but he did drink most of the beer while House polished off the meatloaf.

“Back in a minute,” Wilson said, indicating the men’s room with a twist of his head. House nodded and went back to his own baked potato. Finished, he let the waitress clear the table and asked for the dessert menu. He mulled over it when it came, trying to decide if he was more in the mood for apple cobbler or peanut butter pie. When Wilson came back, he’d ask—

Wait a minute. Where _was_ Wilson? He was usually the in-and-out type in public restrooms, not the sort to linger. He should be back to the table by now, unless . . . A vision of Wilson doubled over with another coughing attack made House stand up and start for the restroom himself. He could always plead personal necessity if it turned out that Wilson was all right and just dawdling for some reason.

He pushed through the door and for a horrid moment thought his fears were correct. Then he realized that Wilson wasn’t doubled over from coughing, he was bending over another man who was lying on the floor near the sinks.

“House! Give me a hand, here. He walked in the door and just collapsed in front of me. He’s breathing, and I’ve got a pulse – ”

“Probably alcoholic stupor. He was at the bar when we came in, and I watched him suck down at least four drinks while we had dinner. I’ll stay; get the bartender and they can call for someone to get him out of here.” Wilson nodded and left; House did a quick check of the unconscious man’s condition himself. Pulse fine, pupils responsive, breathing a touch stertorous but okay, skin flushed but not more than usual for someone who’d been drinking a lot. The guy reeked of whiskey; Wilson already had him arranged in the rescue position in case he came to and started puking his guts out. 

The manager came in, looking harried, followed by Wilson. “They’ve got rescue on the way, ETA about four minutes,” Wilson said, then turned to the manager. “We’re both doctors,” he assured the man, “he should be okay until the rescue unit gets here.”

“Lucky for him you were here,” the manager told them. “He’s a regular – drinks a lot, but he’s never passed out like this before. At least, not here.”

“It catches up with you eventually,” House said. “I should know, I’ve done enough of it myself.” 

A few minutes later the sound of sirens signaled the arrival of the rescue squad. House faded out of the way to let Wilson talk to the EMTs about vitals and other necessary information; he figured it was best if he himself was questioned by authority – _any_ authority – as little as possible.

With the ambulance gone, Wilson rejoined him at the table. “What do you want for dessert?” House asked. “The manager is comping our whole meal as a thank-you for dealing with Tipsy Tim back there, so we can go crazy.”

“That was nice of him,” Wilson said. “Um . . . what do they have with ice cream? My throat feels a bit raw.”

* * * * * 

_The fugitive settled a bit more firmly into his new home. Luck seemed to have given him an ideal host – someone just passing by, on the way through to somewhere else. He’d had to suppress the host’s memory of being taken over, of course: he couldn’t risk having anyone become aware of his existence, much less his mission, until he’d managed to complete it. He was very close to his goal now. If the searchers didn’t notice him in this new form, if he didn’t have to go to ground again, he could finish what he had come to do in a matter of days. It would mean suppressing the host’s thoughts and memories more than he normally would do, but here he felt the ends definitely justified the means._

_Once he was sure he had control, he began looking around. His new host was a doctor, a man named James Wilson, on a long road trip with his best friend, thousands of miles away from anyone else who knew him or would have reason to notice if he began behaving oddly. He was in his forties, unmarried –_

_And dying of cancer._

* * * * * 

 

“Hey, did you see this?” House held up the _Apple Inn Helpful Information_ brochure he’d found on the desk. “Their complimentary breakfast is actually worth getting up for. Scrambled eggs, fried eggs, sausage, ham, bacon, pancakes, waffles – ”

“Only _you_ could come back to a motel room after an enormous dinner and immediately start plans for breakfast,” Wilson said from the easy chair, sounding amused.

“—strata, home fries, hash browns, hot fried apples, fresh fruit, homemade biscuits, homemade muffins, croissants, scones, homemade oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins, coffee, espresso, hot tea, hot chocolate, orange juice, and milk,” House finished. “We’re getting up early tomorrow,” he added, catching his breath.

“It does sound better than the usual hard-boiled egg, banana, and cellophane danish,” Wilson agreed. “Define ‘early’.”

“They start serving at five-thirty, remember?”

“She also said they serve until ten. But if you’re hungry at five-thirty, go right ahead. It’ll give you a head start on the truckers.”

“ _Exactly_. Five-thirty it is.”

“Five-thirty it may be, for you. For me, eight o’clock sounds about right.”

“You can’t be serious. The good stuff will be gone by then!”

“House, all of the passes we’re going through tomorrow are almost eleven thousand feet up, and as you’ve already pointed out it’s getting harder for me to do those. I need the rest, okay?”

“Spoilsport.”

“Yes, House, I planned my illness just to interfere with your need to stuff your face at odd hours of the day. Sheesh, the wireless in this place could be a bit faster.”

“Be grateful they’ve got it at all. Remember that dump last night?”

“I’m trying to forget about it, but you keep reminding me. Oh, _finally_ ,” Wilson said as the page on his tablet loaded at last.

“What’re you looking at?”

“I’m going over tomorrow’s route and checking the weather for the passes. After which—” 

“After which, we can watch – hey! This place has no porn channels!” House exclaimed indignantly. 

“It’s got the _Avengers_ movie on pay-per-view. Look at Loki’s helmet if you’re horny.” Wilson got up to head for the bathroom. 

“Ha, ha, ha.” House, absorbed in flipping channels, looked up briefly as the other man walked past him. In the mirror over the dresser – it must have been a trick of the light – Wilson’s eyes seemed to gleam briefly with an eerie white glow.


	2. Taking the High Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **As their trip to Taos continues, House begins to wonder just why Wilson seems to be feeling so much better.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **But the reason is one he'd never guess . . .**

* * * * *

 

“What the hell is this? Why didn’t you tell me you were getting up?”

“You were the one who was insisting on breakfast at five-thirty,” Wilson looked up at him from his seat in front of a plate stacked high with pancakes, butter, and syrup. “When I tried to wake you up, you told me to go to hell, so I came over here by myself.”

“You’ve been here that long?” 

Wilson, his mouth full of pancake, shrugged and nodded. “I woke up hungry,” he explained, swallowing. 

“And you’ve been sitting here eating the whole time.” House looked at the stacks of empty plates that littered the table. Judging from the evidence, in the hour and a half or so he’d been here, Wilson had eaten his way through most of what the complimentary breakfast buffet had to offer, even – “You’ve been eating _oatmeal?_ ”

Wilson nodded and shrugged again. “Grp uh pluhd,” he said through an enormous bite of pancake.

“What?”

“Grab a plate,” Wilson repeated. “The waffles are only so-so, but the strata’s fantastic. I’m going back for some more when I’ve finished this.”

“You eat any more, and I’ll have to roll you back to the room. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” House came around the table to lay a hand on Wilson’s forehead. No obvious fever . . . his mind began to busy itself with other possible causes of excessive appetite.

“I’m fine, House. I’m just hungry, that’s all.”

“A little more than twelve hours ago you weren’t able to eat half your dinner. Now I find you’ve spent over an hour stuffing yourself, and yet you say you’re still hungry. Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you?”

“I also got a full night’s sleep for the first time in ages. Maybe it’s not as bad as we thought – it could just be that I’ve been fighting off a virus the past few days. You know what they say: ‘Feed a cold – ’ ”

“—and starve a cancer? Hey, I know this guy who’s an oncologist! Bet _he’d_ be able to tell me if it’s normal for a thymoma victim to be eating everything in sight for breakfast after barely being able to swallow ice cream the night before.”

“He’d tell you that all cancer patients have good days and bad days, so yes, it’s perfectly normal.”

“No, it’s _not!_ The coughing and the difficulty swallowing are because of an _obstruction._ That kind of thing doesn’t just come and go when it feels like it.” 

“House, I don’t understand you. I’m feeling better today than I’ve felt in weeks. Any _normal_ person would be happy for me, but you seem to – to take it as some kind of personal insult!”

“Because there’s no legitimate medical reason why you should suddenly be feeling this much better, and I don’t trust things that don’t have reasons.”

“No, you like to put all your trust in facts. Okay, fact: I’m feeling better this morning. Fact: I’m hungry. Fact: Because I’m feeling better, and I’m hungry, I am eating. Fact: Right now I’m not particularly worried about _why_ I can eat this morning when I couldn’t eat last night, I’m just enjoying the fact that I can. Fact: The odds are I don’t have too many days left, so if this is a good one, I’m going to take it and be grateful. 

“Now, you can either grab a plate and join me, or shut up and let me eat in peace.” 

Syrup ran down Wilson’s chin as he shoved another massive forkful of pancake into his mouth. House stared at him, then shook his head and made his way over to the food.

Wilson was right, he discovered a few minutes later – the strata was _delicious._

All the same, there was something peculiar about this.

* * * * * 

Some hours later, they had conquered both Molas and Coal Bank Passes, gone on to connect to Route 160 at Durango and made their way leisurely east past the twin peaks of Chimney Rock to Pagosa Springs, where Wilson had decided to stop for lunch and fuel before making their way up the Great Divide to Wolf Creek Pass. 

House, riding next to Wilson, had kept a close eye on the other man, especially as they came down from the second pass. He didn’t know whether to be anxious or relieved when Wilson showed no sign of being distressed by the high altitude and cold, thin air. True, they had spent months now at high elevations, but that had been in summer and early autumn. Now, with winter coming on, the wind over the passes was sharp. Yesterday’s ride through Red Mountain Pass had cost Wilson that coughing spasm last night – but today he’d seemed fine, simply wrapping his scarf around his throat an extra turn and tucking it firmly into his wool-lined leather bike jacket. 

Tightening the gas cap on his bike’s tank, Wilson smiled at him. “Ready for lunch? There’s a brew and grill place right over there that was recommended online – it’s got a huge menu.” 

“Sure,” House shrugged. “You mean you’re not still full from breakfast?”

“House, that was _hours_ ago! Come on, I’m hungry if you’re not.”

The Pagosa Brewing Company & Grill proved to be every bit as good as the online reviewers had claimed, including the speedy service. When the waitress came for their orders, House was trying to decide between the “Swisshroom” Angus burger and something called a “Man Dog” – until he spotted the grilled Reuben further down the menu. He was just about to speak up when Wilson started on his own order.

“I’d like the Poor Richard Ale, and the hot pretzels and cheese appetizer. Then the salmon tacos, and . . . hmm, the Brewer’s Burger sounds good, give me one of those with the Angus beef, please. Oh, and a side salad—the spinach.”

“That should get you started,” House remarked drily, giving the waitress his own more modest order for fries and the Reuben, with a Coke.

“Everything sounds so good it’s hard to choose – and when it comes down to it, why should I have to? It’s not like I need to worry about weight gain, after all,” Wilson defended himself.

“True.” House stared at him across the table. Wilson looked . . . different. His energy was obviously high; he’d completely lost the weary lassitude of yesterday; his color was good, and his eyes had regained their old sparkle. Anything less like a typical cancer patient House had never seen. “We need to find a hospital,” House told him. “I know you’ve never been a big believer in spontaneous remission, but from the looks of you we need to check and see what’s going on in your chest.” 

Wilson blew a dismissive raspberry. “Don’t be ridiculous. I _told_ you, I’m just having a good day. There are bound to be a few, there always are. Let’s enjoy it while it’s here.” He toasted House with the beer the waitress had just set in front of him and spent the rest of the meal boring House to death with details about Taos. 

“If you know this much about it already, why bother going there?” House finally asked. 

“It’s a place I’ve always wanted to visit,” Wilson said, scribbling his signature at the bottom of the bill. “But I never thought I’d get the chance; so now that I’ve got it, I’m going. Come on, we need to get moving – we still have Wolf Creek Pass to get over, and the weather forecast said there might be a chance of snow up there.”

* * * * * 

There hadn’t been snow, just more thin, cold air. Not to mention more RVs than House would have believed existed in the entire country, let alone just one small part of Colorado. If the steep road up the west side had been a challenge, surrounded by the slow-moving behemoths, the road down the slopes of the east side was nerve-wracking. He made a mental vow that the first car dealership they found near Taos would get two bikes in trade for any solid vehicle with four wheels and a sturdy metal frame. If the dealership had a tank or an armored personnel carrier on the lot, so much the better.

In the end, they made it to Alamosa, found a motel, collapsed, and slept until Wilson nudged House awake with a demand for dinner.

They were sharing a bed again; House rolled over with a groan. “Look at the restaurant guide and call for pizza. Nothing is getting me back on that bike again before morning.” He tried to move and flinched, moaning. “And maybe not then.” This day’s ride had been longer than usual, and far more stressful: his leg was a mass of pain. He’d taken one of his carefully-hoarded Vicodin before falling asleep, but it had done little more than dial back the torment slightly. 

“I’ve got a better idea – look, it says there’s a Mexican place a mile or two away that does takeout. Why don’t I call them and go pick it up, while you soak in the tub? You keep saying that one of the best things about motel living is the unlimited hot water.” 

“And I thought _I_ was the genius in this relationship.” House forced himself to sit up, digging his fingers into the tense leg muscles to try and loosen them enough to stand.

“Here,” Wilson said. He stooped down to pull House up from the bed. “Don’t put your weight on it; just sling your arm across the back of my neck and hold on. Got it? Okay, nice and easy.” He put his left arm around House’s waist and started them towards the bathroom, supporting over half of House’s weight with no sign of effort. Once he had the other man seated on the toilet, he closed the plug on the tub and started running the hot water. “I’m going to go call the restaurant,” he told House. “Yell if you need me.”

Alone in the bathroom, House managed to get undressed and slide into the steaming tub, moaning in relief as the hot water surrounded him. As the pain finally began to lessen, he found himself thinking about the way Wilson had practically picked him up off the bed and more than half-carried him to the bathroom. For the past several weeks Wilson had been obviously losing weight, and while he’d tried to put a good face on it simple things like lifting the saddlebags onto the bike in the morning were becoming more and more of a strain. But just now there had been solid muscle under House’s arm, and Wilson’s grip around his waist had been strong and confident. He’d hefted House across the room as if the taller man were a child.

_I don’t care what he says, we’re finding a hospital and getting him checked out. This is just too weird – sure, remission happens, but nobody gets over aggressive thymoma this fast. If he – _

“House?” Wilson called from the other side of the bathroom door, “I’m heading over to the restaurant to pick up dinner.”

“Hey! I didn’t tell you what I wanted!” House called back, annoyed.

“That would be because I already _know_ what you want. You always get the beef enchiladas and chiles rellenos.”

“I _might_ have wanted something different,” House grumbled.

“If you don’t like yours, I’ll eat it and you can have some of mine.” The door to the room closed behind him before House could ask how many entrees Wilson had ordered this time.

* * * * * 

Wilson hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the two men lounging against the outside wall of the restaurant, except to notice that they were both smokers. He walked around to the front and went inside, paid for his order, and carried the two plastic bags full of containers back to the bike. Focused on getting the food into the bike’s carriers in the dim light of the parking lot, he didn’t hear the men’s approach until a voice directly behind him said, “Hey, man. Nice bike.”

“Tha—” Wilson began, when the man suddenly grabbed him, pulling both arms behind his back. He gave a yell of surprise and started to struggle, then there were several confused seconds and he found himself lying on the ground. A thud, a crack, and a burst of agony told him he’d been kicked, hard enough to break a rib. Through the tears of pain, he saw a heavy shoe drawn back for another kick, this time aimed at his head. Then – 

_The fugitive dropped his concealment and surged forward, taking complete control of the body. His host was not a fighter, but the fugitive was: an expert in unarmed combat, with the experience of centuries to draw on. In under a minute both his assailants lay unconscious on the ground, with the second man’s gun under a car several dozen yards away._

_He looked around. Everything had happened so quickly that it seemed there had been no witnesses. It would be best to keep it that way. Shoving the helmet onto his head, he jumped on the motorcycle, taking a roundabout route back to the motel in case he was being followed. The attack was probably only a simple robbery attempt – they didn’t seem to have been targeting him – but there was no reason to take chances at this point. Not when he was so near, so very near, to his goal._

_He had suppressed the host’s thoughts as soon as he took over the body. Now, working carefully, he created a false memory of leaving the restaurant without incident and impressed it firmly upon his host’s mind. Although it had served him well recently, this was not a technique he preferred using: but despite his distaste he continued, reminding himself that in addition to aiding in his own concealment, it meant less stress for the host, which was always a good thing._

_He let the host regain consciousness and faded back into hiding, retaining only control enough to block the pain from the broken rib as Wilson rode into the motel parking lot._

* * * * * 

The sharp knock at the door next morning came just as House was about to put on his sweatshirt. Wilson, waiting impatiently to go to breakfast, looked through the peephole, then unlatched the security chain and opened the door. “Can I help you?” he asked the police officer waiting on the threshold. 

“Good morning,” the young woman replied, coming inside at Wilson’s gestured invitation, and nodding at House, who had sat down suddenly on the bed. “I’m kind of hoping you can.” 

House, horrified, braced himself for the inevitable. Impossible as it seemed, they must have been recognized. He felt prison looming over him again: possibly for years, with no Wilson waiting when he got out. He kept his face as expressionless as he could, while his stomach curled tight with anxiety. 

“Do the motorcycles out there belong to you guys?” The officer flipped open a small notebook. 

“Yes,” Wilson told her, looking alarmed. “Is anything wrong?" 

“No, don’t worry, your bikes are fine. Were either of you two gentlemen at Gordo Pete’s last night?" 

“I went there to pick up dinner a little before nine-thirty,” Wilson replied. He gestured at the empty takeout containers in the waste can. 

“ ‘A little before nine-thirty’? Could you be more specific about the time?" 

Wilson frowned, thinking. “It was . . . probably between 9:10 and 9:15 when I left here, so I probably got there some time between 9:20 and 9:25. Why?” 

“Anything happen while you were there?" 

“No,” Wilson said, looking confused. “I went in, picked up my food and paid for it, and then came back here. Is this . . . did my credit card – ?” 

“No, sir, there was no problem with the restaurant. Were you with him?” This question was directed at House, who shook his head. “Then can I ask where you were?” 

“I was here in the room, soaking in the bathtub. I have a bad leg,” House said, pointing to his cane as confirmation, “and it stiffened up after the ride yesterday.” He was beginning to relax: whatever this was, it didn’t seem that she was looking for him or Wilson in particular. 

The officer nodded. “Okay.” Turning back to Wilson, she asked, “When you were at Gordo Pete’s, did you notice anyone else there with a motorcycle, or maybe one parked outside?” 

“No,” Wilson said, “there were two men hanging out and smoking along the wall by the parking lot; they were the only people I saw until I got inside. Um . . . can I ask what this is about?” 

“Well, we got a call last night about a fight in the parking lot at Pete’s. The witness was a block or so up the street – said he heard yelling and could see there were three guys fighting, then one of them took off on a motorcycle and left the other two on the ground. By the time one of our officers arrived, they were just coming around. They told him they were having a quiet smoke in the parking lot when the man with the motorcycle attacked them.” The officer’s expression showed her skepticism at this story. “According to them, the guy must be some kind of commando. There were a lot of punches thrown, and one of the ‘victims’ says he managed to land a kick on the guy that he’s pretty sure broke a rib. His friend pulled a gun to defend himself, but the assailant kicked it out of his hand. Then he knocked them both out and rode away.” 

“Wow,” House said, putting enough irony in his tone that the officer flashed him a small smile. 

“Yeah, you got it,” she agreed. “We know these two, so we’re pretty sure things didn’t happen exactly that way, but our witness only saw part of the fight. He rides cycle himself, so he recognized the bike model. I saw your bikes in the lot out there and just thought I’d ask.” 

She turned back to Wilson. “So, you were at Pete’s about that time, but you say you weren’t involved in this?” Wilson shook his head, spreading his hands. “Would you mind coming with me?” she asked then. “I’d like to see if they identify you as the man who attacked them.” 

“There’s a quicker way to check than that,” House put in. “Wilson – take off your shirt." 

“I – what?” Wilson stared at him. 

“Take off your shirt,” House repeated. “If you were kicked hard enough to break a rib, you should have a pretty spectacular bruise, don’t you think? As far as that goes, if you were in any kind of fight there ought to be fresh bruising on you somewhere." 

“Oh!” Wilson exclaimed, “Right. Okay.” He tugged sweatshirt and t-shirt over his head. House limped to the window and pulled the curtains open, then took his own t-shirt off for good measure. 

In the brilliant morning light, it was obvious that Wilson’s torso was clear of bruises or any other signs of injury. They both turned obligingly to allow the officer a full view of chest, arms and back, then put their t-shirts on when she told them they could do so. 

“Well, that sure settles that,” she said, smiling. “Good idea, Mr.—?” 

“Holmes,” House said easily, picking up his sweatshirt from the bed. “Leonard Holmes.” The new identity had cost Wilson a hefty chunk of the money House had left in his will, but so far it had held up to every scrutiny. 

More as a matter of form than anything else, the officer looked at their driver’s licenses, then thanked them for their help and departed. 

“Whew,” Wilson said, leaning against the closed door. “For a minute there—” 

“Yeah,” House agreed, but in an absent tone. With the officer gone, he could focus on something he’d noticed when Wilson had his shirt off. “You’re putting on weight,” he told the other man. “And not just weight, you’re putting on muscle. In the past two days, you’ve stopped looking like a cancer patient and started looking like a Charles Atlas wanna-be. We need to take you to a hospital with a decent cancer center and get them to run some tests." 

_“House . . .”_

“Wilson. This is _not_ just you having another ‘good day’. Something is _happening_ to you. We need to find out what it is.” He stepped closer to the other man, trying to get Wilson to feel the urgency of the situation. 

“No.” Wilson backed away. “No, House! We’ve already agreed: no hospitals, unless it’s for you. I don’t want to go to a hospital; I’m not _going_ to a hospital.” 

“Wilson, you’re an _oncologist!_ How the hell can you _not_ want to know what’s going on? How can you not realize that your condition is _completely_ atypical for someone with thymoma at the stage you have?” House shouted. 

“Because . . . because I’m the one _living_ with it!” Wilson brought his hands up, waving them to emphasize his frustration. “Okay, I – I’m feeling better. I can breathe, I can _eat_ , I have energy again. For the first time in months, I feel _normal_. And I - I don’t want to go somewhere, get tested, and – and find that this is all just some sort of _fluke_ , some kind of – of temporary detour on the road to the grave!” Wilson turned away, clenching his fists. “I want to pretend it’s real, House, even if it can’t be.” He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “I’m going to breakfast now,” he announced, picking up his sweatshirt and putting it back on. 

Realizing he was not going to win, House gave an exasperated growl, and replied, “Fine – but I have a better idea. Let’s pack up and get breakfast on the road. That way, if our friend the police officer thinks of anything she forgot to ask, it’s her bad luck.” He turned to dig in one of their bags. 

“But I’m—” 

_“—hungry!”_ House finished with him. “Here.” He tossed a packet at the other man. “You like trail mix.” 


	3. The Long Way Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **House thought he and Wilson were on their way to Taos -- but now he's not sure _where_ they're going.**

* * * * * 

Breakfast and two dozen miles later, they reached the intersection with State Route 159 at Fort Garland, where a road sign at the juncture directed them south to San Luis and Taos. Wilson, in the lead, cruised past it without so much as hesitating, causing House, who had slowed for the obvious turn, to stare after him in astonishment and gun the motor to catch up. He rode up alongside the other man, signaling him to pull over for a conference, but to his irritation Wilson kept right on going. Finally, House shot ahead of him, signaled, and made the next right turn onto a dirt road nearly three miles beyond the juncture point. 

“What the hell?” Wilson asked, yanking off his helmet when they stopped. “Why are you pulling us over in the middle of nowhere, Colorado?”

“Because either I was seeing things, or we wanted to turn right back there at 159,” House replied. “I thought we were going to Taos, but you breezed right by the sign saying it was seventy miles south of here.”

An odd expression crossed Wilson’s face. For a moment he looked irritated and impatient, then his features relaxed and he gave House a sheepish smile. “Oops. I think I must have forgotten to tell you we can’t actually get through to Taos on that road – there’s an alert on the AAA site that said it’s closed by a rock fall south of the state line. I’m sorry, House; I should have mentioned it when I noticed it at breakfast.”

“You were too busy shoveling your third stack of flapjacks down your throat,” House grumbled, only slightly mollified by the apology. “Or maybe it was the three-egg omelette and the biscuits with gravy.”

“That must have been it,” Wilson agreed, smiling. “Anyway, we have to stay on Rt. 160 over North La Veta Pass, then pick up Interstate 25 at Walsenburg and head south from there down to 64. It’s a pain – if I’d thought to check before we left the motel, we could have taken another route south out of Alamosa.”

“Why didn’t we do that to begin with?”

“Because the route I planned on taking runs through the Rio Grande Gorge, and it’s supposed to be really scenic. The other one was mostly through flat country, and I thought you’d be bored.”

House looked fifty yards back to where a pair of oversized motor homes lumbered eastward along Rt. 160. “Next time we have a choice between boredom and climbing another pass surrounded by mastodons on wheels, let’s choose boredom. How high is it?”

“It’s a low one – just a little over nine thousand feet, with no bad weather forecast. I’m sorry, House – but every time I try to interest you in the route, you tell me to go wherever I want and not bother you with details.”

House rolled his eyes. Getting back on his bike, he couldn’t help thinking that hearing Wilson refer to a nine-thousand-foot-plus pass as “a low one” meant that their ideas about altitude had definitely changed since coming into mountain country.

* * * * * 

The road over North La Veta led through the usual spectacular scenery of soaring peaks and high alpine meadows touched with autumn colors. The pass was not only lower than Wolf Creek, but had a somewhat gentler grade – and tackling it early instead of near the end of a long day’s ride made a noticeable difference in House’s attitude towards the assorted RVs they encountered. As they came down the eastern front, the mountain meadows gave way to shrubs and then to flat, bare grassland. 

In a little under an hour they had made it into Walsenburg and were waiting for the light at the intersection with the business loop of I-25. A vacant lot on a corner had been taken over by a local entrepreneur selling black velvet paintings from the back of a van. House, on the curb side of the lane, was privately trying to decide which of the garishly colored works of “art” he liked least: the saccharine images of Christ and the Virgin Mary, or the sentimental southwestern cactus-with-howling-coyote – when the light changed, allowing them to turn right and go south.

Or rather, allowing _him_ to turn right and go south. Wilson, in complete opposition to the directions he’d given earlier, turned left and north. 

“What the – !” House, trapped by southbound vehicles behind him and northbound ones in the other lane, could only continue south until he found a chance to pull into a parking lot. Wilson must have his directions confused; he was sure to turn around and head back south again as soon as he realized he’d left House behind.

He waited a few moments for the other bike to come into sight, but there was no sign of Wilson. Finally he had to admit that Wilson must not be paying attention – or perhaps he had also pulled over and was waiting for House. After giving it a little longer, House swore in annoyance and took advantage of the next chance he had to pull out of the parking lot and turn back northward. 

He fully expected to find the other man within a block or two, but several blocks, and then several more, went by without success. With mounting concern, he followed the interstate signs out of town and into the surrounding rangeland, crowding his speed as much as he felt he could without drawing the attention of the local cops. If he didn’t see Wilson within another mile or two, he told himself, he would turn back and look for him again in Walsenburg. 

He had nearly decided to make the turnaround when he recognized the form of Wilson in the distance, just reaching the on-ramp where their road merged with the main I-25 four-lane highway. House sped up more – he knew it was hopeless to try to catch the other man before he’d made it onto the freeway, but he needed to at least keep him in sight. His initial relief at finding him again rapidly gave way to annoyance – there was no way by now that Wilson could have missed the fact that he was driving north instead of south, or that House was no longer with him. House had no idea why his companion had decided to pull such a jackass stunt, but he was definitely going to give the other man a piece of his mind as soon as they got to the first exit.

The highway was only lightly traveled; House kicked up his speed and closed in on Wilson in a matter of moments. Coming up next to him, House gestured for a pull-off, but Wilson gave no sign of seeing the motion, or even of noticing House at all. To House’s exasperation he continued to ride north, not slowing even when House leaned on his cycle’s horn and swerved in close, yelling at him to pull over. Through the face shield of Wilson’s helmet, House could just make out the other man’s expression: his face was blank, staring straight ahead and seemingly taking no notice of anything around him.

House fell back slightly, his mind whirling with ideas and hypotheses. _Fugue state. Dammit! The cancer must have spread to his brain, it’s the only possibility. Would explain the weird behavior, the abnormal appetite, all of it. I’ll bet there wasn’t even a rock fall on the road out of Fort Garland – he was making it up to cover the fact that he didn’t realize he’d gone past the turn. And now he’s acting like he doesn’t see or hear me because he probably doesn’t see or hear me – if he’s locked into fugue, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, where he is, or even who he is. Dammit, I should never have let him talk me out of going to a hospital!_

_I’ve got to get him off the road somehow. How the hell am I going to do it at this speed?_

They flashed past a sign warning of the upcoming exit to Red Rock Road, and House, gritting his teeth, decided to try a desperation move. He came up on Wilson’s left again, bringing his own bike alongside and slightly ahead of the other man’s. As the exit approached, he began nudging his machine rightwards toward Wilson’s, hoping that his friend’s fugue was not so complete as to make Wilson oblivious to threats to his bodily safety. Gradually, he came closer and closer, until it seemed as if the two cycles would collide in another second – but to his infinite relief, Wilson’s motorcycle began drifting slightly right as well. 

His grip tight on the handlebars, House nudged right once more, and was rewarded by another rightwards move from Wilson. It was working—they were reaching the exit. In another few seconds they would be off the highway. He risked a look ahead down the exit lane – and in that instant Wilson suddenly hit his brakes, dropping back hard to veer around House and back up onto the highway at the last second, leaning low and flying faster now than he’d been going before.

It was too late to follow. Swearing viciously, House continued down the exit ramp, roaring across Red Rock Road and back up the on-ramp on the other side. Wilson was well ahead of him now, still riding low and fast. 

There was no point to risking another move like that one. House settled for falling back, keeping the other cycle in sight and making no attempt to do anything but follow. But in spite of his best efforts, Wilson was gaining headway, clearly riding faster than House was. House ticked his speed up again, wishing for once for the sight of a highway patrol or sheriff’s car. 

Wilson raced by a semi and vanished down a slight grade; House accelerated once more to keep him in view. He checked his fuel gauge – still more than half a tank since he’d filled it when they stopped for breakfast; the chase could go on for hours yet. From the top of the grade he could see the richer greens of trees and bushes and cropland along one of Colorado’s stunted rivers; beyond that was what looked like an endless ribbon of highway through more rangeland. Wilson showed no sign of slowing. Grimly, House settled in for the long haul.

* * * * * 

_At last, finally! The fugitive’s destination was now only hours away. Aside from his host’s companion there was no sign of pursuit, and after the aborted attempt to force them off the road the other man seemed to have realized that the fugitive would not be interfered with and had dropped back. It would be simple enough to lose him later; for now, the fugitive concentrated on covering distance as quickly as he could without damaging his vehicle or drawing the attention of traffic authorities._

_He had taken control of the host while they were at breakfast, so smoothly that their companion had never noticed. Deep inside, a part of him was anguished at the need to do this, but he must, if he were to survive and complete his mission. When it was over, if he were successful, he would apologize and do what he could to make amends._

_He owed his host much: some of it he had already repaid, but now he was taking them into increasing danger. The Alliance had known the nature of his mission; it was unlikely that they had given up searching for him, although he had done his best to make it appear he had not survived their initial attack. They might not know precisely where he was, but he could have only two possible destinations and his enemies were not fools: they would be watching in both places. His one advantage was that there must necessarily be but few of them, and having to monitor two locations at such a distance from one another would spread their forces even thinner._

_He turned ideas and plans over in his mind as he rode, always peripherally aware of his host’s companion some distance behind them._

The motorcycles sped on.

* * * * * 

By the time they were nearing Pueblo, House’s leg had begun bitching at him and he would have given a great deal for the chance to stop at a restroom. Early afternoon traffic was thickening around them as they reached the city’s outer suburbs, and he had to risk riding closer to Wilson to keep him in sight. He wasn’t sure how the other man would react to the more congested area, but Wilson was weaving in and out of traffic with easy expertise. House, following, forced himself to keep alert – his one chance of being there when Wilson finally stopped was to stick to him like Velcro.

And so, when Wilson suddenly left the main route and headed into the city streets, House was just quick enough to stay behind him. For the next fifteen or twenty minutes he struggled to keep up as Wilson made sudden turns, abrupt reversals, and changes in speed. He drove through parking lots and looped around the backs of buildings, or went through lights just as they changed, his antics finally forcing House to keep a mere three feet or less between them, sweating and swearing as irate drivers in cars and pickup trucks honked and swerved around them. 

It was clear that Wilson was deliberately trying to lose him – probably, House realized, because the other man’s fugue state meant he no longer recognized House and felt that the motorcycle following him so closely was some kind of threat. The only way to persuade him otherwise was to drop back, but if he did so Wilson would most likely manage to escape him entirely. He hung on like a leech until Wilson finally seemed to give up and resumed riding in a more or less normal fashion. They kept together up North Santa Fe Avenue, finally merging back onto I-25 toward Colorado City.

* * * * * 

_The fugitive had known from his host’s memories that Dr. Gregory House was a stubborn man. Even so, he had managed to underestimate his sheer bulldog determination not to lose sight of his friend. Every effort to shake him off had failed. To the fugitive’s annoyance, he realized that he would have to wait until they were nearer to his goal and then take more direct action. Not for the first time he regretted the loss of all his equipment: without it, it was possible he would have to seriously injure or kill his host’s friend to prevent him from interfering further._

_Now, he could waste no more time in futile efforts to save the man. When the time came, he would have to do what he would have to do. All the same, he would take care to ensure that what happened was quick, for he owed his host no less._

_As they rode north again, he reviewed the rest of their upcoming route. Since his kind did not need sleep, the fugitive had simply allowed his host to become unconscious at night. Once their companion was sleeping, the fugitive had spent the night using his host’s somewhat primitive wireless device to search for the information he needed. The least change in the other man’s breathing patterns, the smallest sign of a return to consciousness, and the fugitive feigned sleep until the danger of discovery was past._

_His snooping techniques were far more sophisticated than any firewall could stop – his kind had been using technology of this sort since shortly after the time that humans had first built cities. From what he had found, he knew two things: First, there were more ways of getting to his destination than he had hoped there would be. Second, and far more important, the thing he was trying to prevent had not yet happened. In spite of the delays enforced upon him, his mission still had a chance of success._

* * * * * 

House dug in the pocket of his leather riding jacket and found his Vicodin. He had to stay with Wilson, and the pain in his leg was making it more difficult the longer he was forced to keep this cramped position on the bike. Their usual traveling pattern had been to ride for shorter stretches with much more frequent breaks to stretch and walk around: these last few days’ rides had been longer and harder, and he was paying the price in stiffness and agonizing spasms of pain. He dry-swallowed a pill and tried to take his mind off the persistant throbbing in his leg and the increasing aggravation of a full bladder.

They had switched from I-25 to I-50 westbound a few miles back; House had given up trying to imagine why. He simply kept riding, watching to ensure Wilson didn’t take an exit unexpectedly or suddenly try to ride eastbound in the westbound lanes. Eventually, he supposed, both bikes would run out of gas and this mad adventure would stop. He could flag someone down, get Wilson to a hospital – and begin the long vigil that would have only one ending. If, as he now considered almost certain, Wilson’s cancer had spread to his brain, his friend had even less time than House had estimated only two days before. Horribly, he would probably spend it not knowing who he was, who House was, or what was happening to him.

They rode on, leaving the outskirts of Pueblo behind them and crossing another stretch of open range before coming into the small community of Penrose. Ahead of them, behind the sharp peaks of the Sangre de Cristos, stark white cumulonimbus clouds stretched up higher than the mountain tops, carrying the snow of an early winter storm. House looked at them uneasily: if he recalled correctly, I-50 went up into the mountains and on across the state. A winter storm at those altitudes was something they had no chance of making it through: worse, his gas gauge told him they’d be running out somewhere about half-way up the mountainsides.

As if Wilson had heard his thoughts, he slowed, then took the exit onto Colorado State Highway 115 through Penrose, heading northwards again. Wearily, House went after him.

On and on and on. 115 turned and twisted, rose and dipped from one small creek valley into another, with only the occasional battered pickup truck or elderly sedan in the other lane. House, leaning into turns, rising and falling and rattling hard over some of the more badly-maintained stretches, set his jaw as the pain in his leg overrode the Vicodin and tried to establish itself as the center of his attention. 

On and on, up into the foothills that surrounded Cheyenne Mountain and the Cheyenne Mountain State Park. Better pavement; more cars passing; up and down over ridges and grades. Dusty earth, wiry grass, autumn-bronzed oaks, tall pines and tumbled boulders. On and on. He swallowed another Vicodin.

An intersection – Wilson turned westward again, apparently determined to go mountain climbing or bird-watching or some other activity his cancer-damaged brain had decided it wanted to do. House turned with him, onto Something-or-Other Ranch Road – which, it turned out a mile or so later, was the State Park entranceway. 

Wilson rode past the entrance point without slowing, causing the ranger to step out the door of the shelter and stare after him, shouting for him to come back. House bit his lip with indecision, then pulled up to the entrance building and stopped. Distracted, the ranger glanced at him and said, automatically, “Seven dollars, please, sir,” then kept staring after Wilson. 

“I’m paying his way, too,” House told him, gesturing at Wilson’s diminishing form and grabbing his wallet from his jeans.

“Oh, okay, sir, thank you!” The ranger smiled. “I was a bit worried when he just kept on going, there.” 

“He’s a little deaf,” House told the man, taking his receipt and accelerating after Wilson.

They rode on through the park, trees and grass and boulders and dust. How much longer? House wondered. At least now that they were inside the park, there was nowhere else Wilson could go; he would have to stop eventually. He would have to stop eventually – House clung to that idea. 

Wilson, though, showed no sign of stopping any time soon. He slowed a little when the paved road intersected with a hiking trail, then turned to follow the dirt track that meandered across a section of rocky scrub before joining a wider, paved trail that skirted some sort of sports complex that clearly didn’t belong to the park. A baseball field and basketball court were visible through the metal mesh of a tall, well-maintained fence some thirty or forty feet away. 

And then, at last – House shoved the agony in his leg aside to focus – yes, Wilson was slowing. Slowing, wavering a little from one side of the trail to the other, putting a hand up to his head. House drew a sobbing breath of mingled pain and relief. They were stopping. 

Wilson wandered on a few dozen more yards and stopped completely, straddling the bike and holding his head in both hands, shaking it back and forth as if it hurt. Slowly, carefully, House pulled up behind him. Only a sudden surge of adrenaline and the pill he’d just taken allowed him to straighten his right leg and pivot it over the seat without screaming. He balanced on the left and unsnapped his cane from its holder before limping awkwardly over to the other man.

“Wilson? Wilson! Can you hear me?”

The other man slowly unfastened the chin strap and lifted his helmet from his head, looking dazed. “House? Wh-where . . .?”

“Let me look at you,” House said. “Do you remember anything about the last couple of hours?”

“N-no. House, where are we? What am I doing here? I—” He got off his bike and let his helmet drop to the ground. “I can’t—” His face bewildered, he reached toward House, who moved closer, trying to get a good look at his eyes.

Those eyes suddenly flashed a terrifying white, and with inhuman speed the other man grabbed House’s left arm, yanking him off balance and sinking a fist into his stomach at the same time. 

“Whoof!” As House doubled over with the unexpected blow, Wilson let go of his arm and punched him in the jaw with enough force to snap House’s head to the side and send up a shower of sparks in front of his eyes. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

* * * * * 

_For a moment, the fugitive stood over the body of the man he’d just knocked out, feeling . . . strange. In spite of his impatience to be gone, he knelt and felt for a pulse; his relief when he found it strong and steady was greater than he expected. This was the best he could do for his host’s friend who, when he came to, would at least be near a place where he could get help quickly. There was no danger he would be left to face a late autumn night in mountainous terrain without shelter or protection from the cold._

_Now, it was time for him to do what he’d come for. The access point he was seeking was well-concealed, but he had memorized enough landmarks from large-scale online maps and satellite images to have a good approximation of where he was in relation to it. He mounted the bike, rode slowly until the trail swung north again, then dismounted at the turning point. Rifling through the contents of the saddlebags, he located an object his host’s memories assured him would be there and pocketed it. From here, his best approach would be by foot._

_He worked his way slowly towards the place where the entrance had to be – very slowly, taking advantage of every bit of cover. This was the point of greatest danger. If the ones who were searching for him knew about this access it would probably be guarded; if it were not guarded, then no harm was done by taking precautions._

_Reaching the fence that separated the park’s land from his goal, he pulled out the item he’d brought from the motorcycle: a kind of multiple-use tool with a bright red handle. Keeping well hidden in one of the thicker clumps of trees, he verified that the fence was not electrified, then set to work with the wire-cutting blade, working slowly and carefully, pausing as each strand parted to look and listen for any sign of ambush. At last he had the opening large enough. After one last check in all directions, he slipped through from the parkland to the grounds of the Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station. Cautiously, he moved from tree to boulder to tree again, hyper-alert to every sound, every movement around him._

_When the energy blast of a zat’nik’tel tore through the place where he had been standing, he had already flung himself to the ground, rolling quickly toward the cover of a large boulder._

_The second blast glanced off the rock. He kept his head down, tucking himself in small behind his shelter, thinking quickly. The second shot had come from the same direction as the first; no others had been fired – it was likely, though not certain, that there was only one enemy to contend with. What was more, that enemy was almost certainly a local recruit, someone more used to Tau’ri projectile weapons than beam weapons such as the zat’nik’tel, or he would have fired low, knowing that the beam would be just as effective hitting the fugitive’s legs as the head or torso, and giving his target no way to avoid it._

_“You are a fool!” he called out. “And so are those who have purchased you, equipping you with weapons you don’t understand.”_

_“You’re the fool!” his pursuer shouted back. “You thought this entry wouldn’t be guarded, didn’t you? That was stupid!”_

_The voice came from a slightly different angle than the shots had done: his pursuer was moving. He scooted to his right to keep the stone barrier between himself and the zat’nik’tel. This was better than he’d hoped – the voice sounded like that of a youngster barely into his third decade. Not only inexperienced with his weapon, then, but inexperienced in general – or he would not so quickly have been baited into revealing his position. There was still no sign of any confederate: had there been one, there would have been crossfire by this time. His luck was holding._

_“You are not a guard,” he called back, scornfully. “You are merely a victim, tricked into this way of paying off a debt to the Alliance. Did they not tell you the payment would be your life?”_

_“Seems to me I’m the one with the weapon! I don’t see you shooting anything!” The pursuer’s voice was closer; he was still moving, trying to find an angle for a clear shot. The fugitive adjusted his position again, then reached out to pick up two of the many small, loose rocks that lay near the larger chunk of stone that sheltered him._

_“Only a fool would confuse restraint with helplessness,” he responded._

_“Yeah, right. I’ve got this zatnuk thing, you’ve got nothing. So go ahead, bring it!” The voice was closer still, arrogant with the certainty of victory. The fugitive could place him from the sound of it – his enemy had left the cover of the trees and come out into the open space between trees and boulder._

_He truly was dealing with a fool, the fugitive decided. He lobbed one of his stones to the far side of the boulder, then leaped from cover on the opposite side. As he had expected, the movement of the stone had drawn his pursuer’s attention – he stood turned three-quarters away, trying to see what it was. The fugitive threw his other stone hard, in a perfect trajectory – that missed, as the young man whirled suddenly, bringing up the zat’nik’tel, smiling savagely as he –_

_**CRACK!** _

_The young man spun with the force of the Tau’ri bullet that took him in the back. His fingers spasmed on the zat’nik’tel, but the energy burst went wide, and he fell to his knees before pitching forward onto his face with the weapon beneath him. He made an effort to rise, then slumped down again._

_“Don’t move.”_

_It was the voice of Gregory House, who stood half-supported by the tree behind him, both hands wrapped around the grip of a Tau’ri pistol._

* * * * * 

 

“House!” There was relief and welcome in the tone. “I’m—”

“I said, _don’t move!_ ” The pistol didn’t waver. “I don’t know who you – _what_ you are, but—”

“House, it’s me! Wilson!” The other man hunched his shoulders and spread his hands in Wilson’s familiar gesture of bafflement, but House was not fooled.

“No. Whatever you are, you’re not James Wilson. Setting aside the fact that Wilson would never hit me the way you did back there, he wouldn’t try breaking into a high-security military base. He’d have no reason to – and people with ray guns would have no reason to shoot at him.”

The Wilson-thing dropped its hands to its sides. “You are right – there is no point to continuing the pretence.” It no longer spoke in Wilson’s normal voice, but in a weirdly gutteral distortion an octave lower, and its eyes had the same bizarre white glow that House had seen in them just before the Wilson-thing had slugged him over an hour before. “But if you want your friend back, then I suggest that you not shoot us.”

“ ‘Us’?”

The thing gestured at its chest. “He is still here, in this body. Kill me, and you murder him along with me.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“No.”

“Why not? You claim he’s there, how can I believe you if I can’t talk to him?”

“He is . . . not conscious. His last memory before I took over the body was of having breakfast with you this morning. If I were to allow him to awaken now, he would be confused and frightened to find himself in the wilderness with his best friend pointing a weapon at him. He would be terrified to find that it was because you thought he had been taken over by some alien intelligence; he could only believe either you or he had gone mad. Do you wish to cause him that kind of suffering?”

“Why should _you_ care whether or not he suffers?”

“While I share his body, I feel as he does, to a certain extent. I have come to know him: he is a good man. And my people do not believe in causing unnecessary suffering to a host.”

House shook his head, fighting to stay upright against the pain in his leg. “There are _more_ of you?” he asked, horror filling him at the thought.

“Many more. But we mean you no harm. I was forced to . . . borrow your friend’s body by the death of Lanra, who was my host for far longer than you have been alive. I have a mission to complete, and my kind cannot live without a host body.”

“A ‘mission’ that involves trying to infiltrate one of the U.S. government’s highest-security locations.” House tightened his grip on the pistol, swallowing. “Maybe shooting you _is_ the right thing to do, no matter what happens to Wilson.”

“If you believed that, you would already have fired. But it makes no difference – listen.” The Wilson-thing cocked its head. “Our presence here has been detected. Guards approach.”

Seconds later, a military Humvee jostled its way over the ridge that separated the base buildings from the area where they stood. Men in camo fatigues leaped from it, aiming rifles at House and his alien companion.

“Drop the weapon!” the officer in charge shouted, and House immediately let the pistol fall to the ground. “Hands where I can see them! Identify yourselves!”

The Wilson-thing drew itself up. There was no mistaking the note of victory in its voice as it replied.

“I am Tonnoc of the Tok’ra! I bear an urgent message for General Carter.”

* * * * *


	4. Into the Depths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **House had been prepared to go to Taos and be bored. Instead, he's finding the Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station anything but boring.**

* * * * * 

House had grown up on military bases, but he had to admit that when it came to efficiency these guys had it all over even the most tightly-run Marine posts he’d known. A few brisk orders, and in a breathtakingly short time a medic had checked on the man House had shot and was yelling for a stretcher, more vehicles had swarmed over the ridge, and he and Wi – _Tonnoc_ – had been ordered into the back of a van which set off immediately, bouncing and jouncing until it reached a paved road.

Oddly, they hadn’t been searched – in fact, none of the uniformed men had come closer than about ten yards to either of them. When House’s leg had finally given out as he tried to limp to the van, Tonnoc was ordered to help him into the vehicle, and the van door was closed by remote control.

A bench-like seat ran along each side of the van’s interior. House, half in shock, exhausted, and still trying to come to terms with the events of the last several hours, collapsed onto one of them and lay down. Wils – _Tonnoc!_ – sat opposite, looking at him with Wilson’s usual expression of concern. House closed his eyes and turned his head away, not wanting to see the eerie glow in that gaze.

“Have you any of your medication?” Tonnoc asked.

With his eyes still closed, House shook his head. “Took my last one so I could chase you into this mess.” 

“Yet you are still in extreme pain.” There was a compassionate note in the strange voice.

“I rode for hours with the leg in one position – the muscles locked up. Then we had our little wilderness hike. Now the adrenaline’s worn off, there’s only so much the Vicodin can compensate for.”

“When we arrive, I will insist that you be given treatment. As you are my host’s . . . companion, it is only fitting that I do as much for you as I can.”

House winced, and remained silent for the rest of the ride. 

* * * * * 

The van paused a couple of times – checkpoints, House assumed – before finally it halted, the door slid aside, and they were ordered out. House sat up, but Tonnoc gestured to him to stay where he was. Through the open door they could see that the van was inside some sort of tunnel, and surrounded with riflemen.

Stepping to the door, the Tok’ra called out, “We require assistance. My companion is injured, and cannot walk.”

“Stay in the van,” came the reply, and Tonnoc nodded and seated himself once more. Three or four minutes later, armed guards arrived with a medical team and a gurney.

“Any sign of an attempt at symbiote transfer, and you’re dead,” one of the guards announced. Tonnoc clambered out of the van, and the medical team moved in to put House on the gurney. He considered trying to insist that he could walk, then thought better of it and simply lay back as he was rolled down a wide corridor and into an elevator.

The ride down lasted much longer than he expected, and their final destination proved to be a medical facility as well-equipped as any hospital he’d ever worked for. Indeed, it had a number of items he’d never even seen before and couldn’t imagine the use of. Staring at them and speculating kept his mind occupied as, in quick succession, the entire group underwent a brisk but thorough physical exam and blood draw – not House and Tonnoc alone, but the medics and guards as well. To his mild surprise, Tonnoc made no complaint, seeming resigned to the necessity. Once it was over, the two of them were given sweatpants and t-shirts to put on: their clothes, he supposed, had been taken away to be searched. They were allowed to sit and wait on one side of the room; the base personnel gathered to sit on the other side. Someone had found a wheelchair for House, which was just as well since he had no idea where his cane was; he’d been ordered to leave it behind when they got into the van. 

While they waited, one of the medical personnel brought House a cup of water and a tablet. “For your leg,” she told him, and he accepted them automatically, grateful for the chance of any relief from the jaw-grating pain that radiated from hip to ankle. To his surprise, he found that it was in fact Vicodin she’d handed him. Once it was obvious his leg was not a recent injury he’d been asked no further questions about it during the physical exam – but someone had evidently paid attention to the empty prescription bottle in the pocket of his jacket. One Vicodin wouldn’t be nearly enough at this point, but then nothing short of morphine would be, and one Vicodin was at least something. He swallowed it down and handed back the empty cup.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Tonnoc looking at him with the expression Wilson always wore when he wanted to help but knew he shouldn’t interfere. House’s stomach turned. That this . . . this . . . _thing_ . . . could just steal Wilson like that, just take him over, creating a mock-Wilson with _nothing_ of the real man behind it, was more obscene than anything he had ever encountered. He edged his chair away, and felt even more like vomiting when the other man’s expression turned to Wilson’s sad-but-understanding look. House turned his head aside and spent the next several minutes staring fixedly at one of the unfamiliar devices on the other side of the room.

At last another young woman in a lab coat came in to speak to Dr. Chutterjee, the medical officer who’d been in charge of the exams. He listened, nodded, and then made a shooing gesture at the group of guards and medics who had been sitting on the other side of the room from House and Tonnoc. 

“Okay, you can all return to duty.” The group got up and left, and Chutterjee turned to his last two patients.

Before he could say anything, Tonnoc stood up. His unnaturally deep, near-metallic voice seething with barely-restrained impatience, he told the base physician, “I have complied with your security requirements, even though they have wasted precious time. It is imperative that I speak with General Carter as soon as possible; my message is of the utmost importance, and it has cost me much to bring it here. In my efforts to reach this place, I have lost Lanra, my host for more than four of your centuries. I have risked my own life – and worse, I have had to take actions that reduce to me to the level of a – ” His voice trailed off and his face twisted as if the missing last word was something too nauseating to say aloud. Then he went on. “General Carter must hear me, _now_. Otherwise, the consequences to your government, to your _world,_ will be severe and possibly irreparable. Lanra’s sacrifice, and mine, will have been for _nothing!_ ” 

A blaze of white light in Wilson’s eyes emphasized Tonnoc’s urgency; House wouldn’t have blamed Chutterjee if he’d taken a quick step backwards in response. But it seemed the other doctor was accustomed enough to this sort of thing to take it in stride. “Our results have been communicated to General Carter. We’re waiting for a response. In the meantime –” He turned to House, but whatever he had been about to say was cut off by the entrance of two men: one in fatigues, the other in simple jeans and t-shirt. Both were tall, but the second, a black man with an odd oval mark on his forehead, had a massive, broad-shouldered physique that would not have looked out of place in an NFL defensive lineup.

“General Carter wants to talk to him,” the dark-haired white man in the fatigues said without preamble, nodding toward Tonnoc. 

Chutterjee raised his eyebrows. “As I said in my report, Colonel Mitchell, we’ve been able to verify the presence of a symbiote, but nothing else. Does the General realize – ?”

“The General has access to recent intelligence indicating that the prisoner is, in fact, an agent of the Tok’ra,” the black man interrupted him. His voice had a rich depth to it, and he spoke with the carefully precise diction of someone for whom English was not a first language, although he had no definite accent. “The information he carries is therefore likely to be of great importance. We should not delay questioning him.” 

“Very well,” Chutterjee made a gesture indicating that he relinquished control of the matter. 

And just like that, Tonnoc – and Wilson – were gone.

* * * * * 

_“You say you have an urgent message, Tonnoc, so let’s hear it.” General Samantha Carter leaned over the briefing room table, both hands flat on its surface, her gaze intent on the Tok’ra._

_“My message concerns the safety of General O’Neill. One of his trusted aides has been suborned by the Alliance – ”_

_“If you’re talking about Randalls, we already know about him. He’s under arrest in a secure facility.”_

_“Then you are also aware of the assassin.”_

_The change in the atmosphere of the room was instantaneous. “Assassin?” General Carter repeated, “No. No, we have no information about an assassin.”_

_“Randalls’ purpose was not only to spy on the military authorities of the Tau’ri, but to arrange for the assassin to gain access to General O’Neill, and slay him,” Tonnoc told her. “In this way the Alliance plan to demonstrate their ability to threaten the Tau’ri government, while destroying the former leader of SG-1. O’Neill is an important symbol to the free Jaffa, and to my own people as well.”_

_“Not to mention that he’s been a real thorn in the side of the Alliance itself,” Mitchell commented._

_“His murder would be a great blow to the prestige of the Tau’ri,” Tonnoc went on. “If your government is incapable of ensuring the safety of one of its greatest heroes on its own ground, how can any allied world feel safe sending its leaders here for trade negotiations or other conferences?”_

_“Wait here,” Carter said, straightening up and turning toward her office, “I need to alert the Pentagon.”_

_“Wait!” Tonnoc said, adding when she paused, “Alliance assassins are extremely thorough in their preparations. Use a communications method you are certain cannot be compromised.”_

_Carter nodded and vanished through her office door. Long minutes passed until she returned, still looking stern but with a bit of the tension gone from around her eyes. “All right,” she said, seating herself, “I’ve passed the message on and Pentagon security is on high alert. Now, I need you to give me every scrap of information you’ve got that might help them catch that assassin.”_

_“Of course,” Tonnoc replied. “But before we begin, I wish to speak of the man who accompanied me here.”_

_“The civilian who shot the Alliance agent?” Carter asked. “What about him?”_

_“He is the good friend of my current host. Furthermore, his actions saved all three of our lives and allowed me to bring my message to you,” Tonnoc told her. “I wish to be certain that nothing . . . unfortunate . . . will happen to him as a result of those actions.”_

_“What I don’t understand is why you felt it necessary to bring him onto the base grounds in the first place,” Carter said. “You must have realized we wouldn’t look kindly on the increased security risk.”_

_“It was not my preferred course of action,” Tonnoc admitted. “He is . . . tenacious. I made every effort to leave him behind, but he would not be evaded. What is more, he was unaware of my presence in this body until shortly before the . . . incident with the Alliance agent. All of this will have been a shock to him; our road here was long, and he has an old injury that causes him chronic pain. I owe him a debt, and I would be grateful if you could see that he is provided with food and a place to rest, and someone to answer at least some of his questions.”_

_Mitchell’s eyebrows went up and he mouthed a word at Carter, who nodded. “I’ll see to it,” he told her, standing up and striding toward the briefing room door. “Back in a few." Carter waved him off, and turned her attention back to Tonnoc._

_“While he does that, let’s get started. In the first place, how did you come by the information you’ve given us?”_

* * * * * 

 

The Vicodin had started to kick in, cutting back a little on the rawness of House’s pain. The wheelchair wasn’t the most comfortable seat in the world, but it did have the kind of footrest that let him adjust things so his leg would bitch at him a little less. No one was paying him any attention: Chutterjee had disappeared; House had managed to stop one of the other medical staff members and ask about his cane, only to be told that if it had been found he’d get it back as soon as it had been cleared by Base security, which left him with nothing to do but sit in the wheelchair and try to put together enough pieces to have some idea of what was going on.

Okay, first: Wilson. Wilson, and the . . . thing inside him that called itself “Tonnoc”. There was no point to wasting time pretending that it was some sort of hallucination on his part or psychotic break on Wilson’s – to begin with, no condition, psychological or physical, could make a man’s eyes literally glow with white light. The staff in the medical facility had barely reacted to the sight, meaning it wasn’t anything new to them. The physical exam had been meant to detect the presence of any other such beings; furthermore, the military guards on the surface were obviously trained in handling similar situations. Conclusion: despite the bad-sci-fi-movie impression, the U.S. government genuinely was in regular contact with some sort of intelligent non-human beings of a completely different species, possibly of extraterrestrial origin. 

Or at least the Air Force was.

It felt insane even to be contemplating such a bizarre idea, but reality was leaving him without too many other choices. He shifted in the wheelchair, grimacing as the pain spiked in his pissed-off leg, and frowned as he rubbed at the muscle in an attempt to soothe it. If he wasn’t so damned tired, walking might actually help a little, but without his cane (and more Vicodin) it wasn’t even a possibility. And now he thought about it, it was hours since he’d had anything to eat, and he was starving.

“Hey! What does it take to get a meal around this place?”

“Well, you can try coming with me,” answered a man who had just come through the door. He walked over and handed House his cane. “Base security has declared this free of any possible hazards, so it’s all yours. If you feel like walking I’ll take you to the base cafeteria; if you don’t feel like walking I’ll take you there anyway, since you definitely don’t want to eat what they serve in _this_ place if you have any sense at all.” He made a gesture that took in the entire medical facility. “I’ll also show you to your assigned quarters after you eat, and as a bonus, I’m told I’m fairly good at answering questions, as long as you don’t mind getting too much information, because I believe in putting all the details in. So what do you say?”

House sized him up. Could be anywhere from his late thirties to his late forties: the man had one of those faces that made it hard to tell for sure without asking. His hair had the untidily overgrown look of a style usually worn short that hadn’t been cut lately and certainly hadn’t been combed lately. He wore glasses with round lenses that made him look rather comically dweeby, and was dressed casually in T-shirt and khakis. Off-duty, then, or – yeah, something about him said he was a civilian. He stuck a hand out at House. “Daniel Jackson.”

House shook hands. He was even more hungry for information than he was for food just now, and pointless rudeness would probably endanger the potential supply. “Leonard Holmes,” he replied, “thanks,” hefting the cane. “Food sounds good; and I always want all the information I can get. You’ll have to take me there, though; I’ve done all the walking I can do for today.” 

“Len, is it?” Jackson inquired. House shrugged. “Let’s go, then,” the other man announced, taking the handles of the wheelchair. 

* * * * * 

 

“Let me see if I understand you,” House said, once he’d finished eating, “The . . . thing that’s inside Wilson—”

“He's a _person_ , not a thing,” Jackson interrupted. “Just not a human person.”

“It’s connected—” House swallowed, “—connected to his brain.”

“To his whole nervous system, actually. That’s how the Tok’ra join with a human host. Look,” Jackson said sympathetically, “I know this has to be disturbing, but believe me, it could be much, _much_ worse.”

“It’s . . . controlling him,” House went on, unheeding. “It told me it was keeping Wilson unconscious so it can use his body.” He could feel his face twisting with the loathing he felt.

Jackson leaned over the table, his face intent. “Okay, look. To begin with, while a Tok’ra is joined to a host, the convention is to refer to the Tok’ra by the host’s gender. Tonnoc is therefore a _he,_ not an _it._ And, as I’ve said, things could be a lot worse. Yes, he’s keeping your friend unconscious, and that’s probably for the best, all things considered. But he’s only _able_ to do that because while he is _in_ your friend’s body, the two of them aren’t blended. They’re still two completely different personalities, only one of whom can be in control of the body at any one time.”

“And how, exactly, could things be _worse?_ ” House asked, acidly. 

“Well,” Jackson leaned back in his chair again, “This is going to be a little hard to believe, but what Tonnoc has done – what he’s had to do – isn’t normal behavior for a Tok’ra. In fact, my guess would be that he hates the whole situation and he’s at least as disgusted by his actions as you are, if that’s any comfort.” House looked at him with open disbelief. 

Jackson plowed on. “Let’s . . . um, okay, let’s start at the beginning. The Tok’ra are an offshoot of a species known as the Goa’uld. They’re identical to the Goa’uld, in fact, in every way except one: under normal conditions a Tok’ra will only join with a willing, fully-informed host. The goal of that is blending, where the Tok’ra and the human host merge their personalities into one being. Each of them can speak and function as an individual, when needed, but for the most part they share the host body completely, right down to their thoughts and feelings.”

“Why the hell would someone agree to that?” House asked, incredulous.

“Well, there are advantages to both parties. The Tok’ra gets a stronger, more mobile and more capable body – in its natural form, a symbiote is more or less snake-like. The human host gets access to the memory and knowledge of the symbiote, a greatly extended lifespan, and perfect health. And since, as I said, the Tok’ra only join with willing hosts, the human actually gets to enjoy all those advantages. With the Goa’uld, the situation is different. A Goa’uld symbiote totally overwhelms the host, buries or extinguishes the host personality completely, and exerts absolute control over the body. If the host personality survives, it exists, sometimes for hundreds of centuries, in a kind of constant nightmare, with absolutely no ability to wake up.”

House went cold at the thought. Then – “Hold on. How is what this . . . Tok’ra . . . did to Wilson any different? I’m damn sure he never _asked_ Wilson if he could move in and take over.”

 _“Exactly!”_ Jackson said, leaning forward again. “The Tok’ra have spent _millennia_ distinguishing themselves from the Goa’uld, battling against them, working to free human hosts from Goa’uld enslavement. They pride themselves in being _nothing_ like the Goa’uld. For Tonnoc, what he’s had to do to your friend Wilson is an appalling crime, worse than rape – and he’s been forced to do it because he needed to survive, to get his message through to us.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for this . . . _thing_ . . . you’re not succeeding,” House informed him.

“That’s completely understandable,” Jackson replied, and the sympathy in his face was not just genuine, it was . . . shared? 

“You know someone who was taken over like this,” House said with certainty, and saw Jackson wince. “And not by a Tok’ra.”

“Sha’re,” Jackson said flatly, his jaw set. “My wife. She was taken by the Goa’uld Amaunet.”

“And so now she’s – ?”

“And so now she’s dead.”

“Oh.” There didn’t seem to be anything House could say to this. _I’m sorry,_ in addition to not remotely covering such a situation, also wasn’t true. He couldn’t care less about the death of someone he’d never met; there was no point to pretending he could. Fortunately, Jackson didn’t seem to expect false platitudes. House sat a moment longer, staring at the table while he tried to absorb everything Jackson had told him in the past hour or more. Then a phrase came back to him with sudden clarity, and he lifted his head to stare across the table at the other man.

“Wait a minute. You said one of the advantages to the host is perfect health?”

“Yes.”

“But what if the host is unhealthy to start with?”

“The symbiote cures them.”

It was like a simultaneous blow to stomach and heart. “Cures them,” House repeated. “As in . . .” his voice trailed off, he couldn’t bring himself to ask, to _hope._

“As in, it restores them to perfect health in every way,” Jackson assured him. “I . . . take it your friend’s health wasn’t good?”

“Wilson’s dying of thymoma – cancer of the thymus gland,” House replied, feeling dazed. 

“Well,” Jackson said, “He may have been, but I can promise you he isn’t now.” 

* * * * *


	5. Temptations of the Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Just when House thinks he has a grasp of what's happening, fate -- and Wilson-- throw in a twist he could never have anticipated.**

* * * * * 

 

House looked around the quarters he’d been assigned. “Guest” quarters – a handy euphemism for “under guard”. The guard in question was always right outside the door, and he (or sometimes she) wouldn’t actually prevent House from leaving the small set of rooms; they just escorted him wherever he went and wouldn’t let him go anywhere off-limits, which was to say anywhere interesting. 

He could limp down the corridor, turn left twice, and go to the cafeteria. (Food, always worth finding.) He could make a left and two rights and find the gym. (Boring equipment, excellent hot tub.) One right turn, one left turn, a ride two levels down in the elevator and one more right turn brought him to the infirmary. (Vicodin. Also, ibuprofen. Also, people who believed him when he said his leg hurt.) Finally, a right turn, a left turn, a ride up one level and two more left turns brought him to Jackson’s office. (“I’ll be on base for at least another two weeks; I’ve managed to translate a whole wall full of – um, well, I’ve got a lot of stuff translated and it needs to go into the database. Unfortunately, I can’t let you use the computer, plus I need it myself, but I’ve got books, if you want.”)

Actually, his thought about the guard not letting him go anywhere interesting was wrong – Jackson’s office was downright fascinating, not least because of what it might mean that the Air Force needed a trained archaeologist on staff. But he did indeed have books. What was more, it didn’t seem to matter what language any particular book was written in, Jackson could read it. “Twenty-seven terrestrial languages,” he’d answered offhandedly when House asked. He’d been staring at a chunk of sandstone with some sort of glyphs cut into it; House wasn’t sure he even realized he’d added the qualifier. 

It hadn’t taken House long to realize that Jackson was capable of the same level of concentrated attention to something that House himself was. His office was a crowded jumble of books, papers, artifacts, more books, still more artifacts, and boxes containing books, papers, and artifacts. Scraps of paper, or whole sheets, were pinned to walls next to photographs of sculptural plinths, decorated columns, or incised carvings in stone walls, usually with partial translations written on them, sometimes with complete translations. These latter ones invariably had words and phrases circled, with question marks and lines leading down to alternative phrasings or even completely different sentences – apparently, Jackson spent a certain amount of time arguing with himself.

All of this was well and good, House thought, standing in the middle of the tiny sitting room outside the tinier bedroom and next to the microscopic bathroom, but this was the third day since he’d arrived here, and he hadn’t seen Tonnoc (or Wilson) since he and the Tok’ra had been brought to the office of the colonel in charge of base security late on the day of their arrival. 

As interrogations went, it hadn’t been all that bad. He’d been questioned separately from the other man, and was mostly asked to confirm what (he supposed) Tonnoc had already told the security officers about their arrival on the base and the confrontation with the kid with the ray gun. (At which point he was grateful for the good sense that had led him to buy a pistol using the Leonard Holmes identity, instead of bringing his father’s service revolver with him as he’d considered doing. There would be no awkward questions about how a firearm registered to someone named “House” had ended up in the hands of someone named “Holmes”.) His victim, it appeared, had survived the shooting – beyond that, no one would answer his questions. He’d been thanked and escorted back to his quarters, and he’d spent the next two days with no idea of what had happened to his companion.

He’d tried asking, but it appeared his guards could only say things starting with “I’m sorry”. The Infirmary staff were equally blandly unhelpful, and when he went to Jackson as a last resort the other man had been sympathetic but uninformative. House had briefly considered creating some kind of scene, maybe even trying to elude his guard and start searching, except that he wouldn’t get far with a limp. Moreover, the base was huge and he had no idea how to find anything except the cafeteria, the infirmary, the gym and Jackson’s office. Finally, behaving like an idiot would mean they’d just restrict him to his quarters and send in his meals and medicine on a tray. Prison had taught him to consider how far his actions might react on his privileges: it was a lesson that came back far too easily now that he was deep underground in a world of fluorescent-lit corridors, metal doors, and guards. 

He’d already pestered Jackson enough for the day; it was past lunch but too soon for dinner; he’d just come from the Infirmary so his leg was no worse than he could expect it to be three days after a cross-country pursuit. He could either look through the books Jackson had lent him, watch whatever there was on the tiny television in his sitting room (amusingly, Comcast seemed to have won the lowest-bid contract for providing cable to the base; why was he not surprised), or he could go sit in the hot tub. The books promised the greatest level of distraction, so he sat down and sorted through the small stack.

The third one down was a cheap paperback from a small press, with the pages already yellowing around the edges. A luridly-painted cover scene showed some sort of UFO hovering over the pyramids of Egypt, while bright yellow type in a large font screamed, “What Were the Pyramids REALLY About?” House blinked at this, until he noticed the author’s name in a far smaller font down in the lower right-hand corner: Daniel Jackson. The publication date proved to be nearly twenty-five years back.

Hmm. House opened the book and started reading.

By the time he was half-way through the third chapter, he couldn’t decide whether to go on or just take the book back and laugh in Daniel Jackson’s face. The theories Jackson apparently espoused made Erich von Däniken seem reasonable: not content with saying that ancient extraterrestrials had helped humans build the pyramids, he postulated that the stone structures themselves were actually intended as landing pads for ancient space ships. What was more, he then went on to speculate that the members of the entire Egyptian pantheon were aliens who routinely traveled back and forth to other planets.

It sounded like the purest nonsense.

But then, so did much of what had happened to him in the past week. 

And Jackson was very obviously not stupid: if he’d included this book in the stack he was lending to House, then he’d probably done so for a reason. House rolled his eyes a little and kept reading.

_. . .and in further support of this theory, we must consider the highly unusual inscriptions found in the recently-discovered tomb KV-87. Here, in addition to the expected formalized petitions for the gods to look favorably upon the deceased in the afterlife, we find the following statement of the tomb occupant’s achievements while living: ‘Behold, I was the favored of my god, my lord’s chosen, first in the ranks of his servants; I bore my lord’s spear, I struck my lord’s enemies with lightning; I said to the servants of my lord, Here is what you must do, and it was done; I said to my lord’s warriors, Do battle, and my lord was victorious. Because of the favor of my lord towards me, his servant, his chosen, first among his servants, I walked with my lord, I rose with him into the heavens; I followed my lord through the Eye of the Gods; into the heavens I followed my lord.’ The term “Eye of the Gods” has been found in only two other examples to date, one in the temple of Amonet at Thebes, where it occurs in conjunction with an as-yet-untranslated hieroglyph similar in form to the Greek omega . . ._

 

“I struck my lord’s enemies with lightning . . . I rose with him into the heavens . . . I followed my lord through the Eye of the Gods." 

House closed the book and sat for a long time, thinking.

* * * * * 

 

He’d come back from dinner and was about to start on another of the books when there was a knock at the door to his quarters. Opening it, he found himself face to face with Tonnoc.

“What do _you_ want?” Surprise, and a certain amount of resentment at having been left alone so long, made him less welcoming than he might have been. 

“House, it’s me. Wilson.” When House didn’t move, the other man looked down for a second, then back up. “Can . . . can I come in?”

House stepped aside without answering, his thoughts chaotic. He’d hoped Tonnoc would eventually show up, but somehow he hadn’t expected Wilson. If, of course, this even _was_ Wilson: Jackson had explained that glowing eyes were a voluntary act on a symbiote’s part, so he had no way to be sure. The realization made him feel sickened and furious and helpless. At the same time, he couldn’t help staring at the other man, taking in as many details as he could. Wilson looked – Wilson’s _body_ looked – better than he had for months. He’d gained back all the weight he’d lost to the cancer-induced anorexia and put on more muscle. His chest nicely filled out the t-shirt he was wearing over a pair of his – Wilson’s – favorite jeans, and the short sleeves of the shirt showed off biceps that made it look as if he’d been working out for weeks. More than that, he looked . . . rested, relaxed. Younger – and there was something else, something . . . 

“When did he cure your strabismus?”

“After we got here. If he’d done it sooner, you would have noticed, and he was trying to stay below your radar.” Wilson went to the one armchair in the room and sat down, looking up at House uncertainly. Then, when House stayed silently on his feet, Wilson lifted both hands to scrub at his face in a familiar gesture before spreading them wide. “It’s _me,_ House. I promise.”

“Oh, really.” House was terse as much to keep his roiling emotions under control as to indicate his disbelief.

“ _Yes_ , really,” Wilson replied, frustration evident in his tone. “I know I can’t prove it, but Tonnoc wouldn’t have any reason to pretend to be me; not here, not to _you.”_

“He seemed to have plenty of reason before,” House said stiffly, seating himself on the side of the small sofa furthest away from the armchair. 

“I know. He . . . he wants you to know that he’s really sorry for what he had to do. It’s just that the host he had before me—”

“The guy who passed out in the bathroom at that restaurant,” House interrupted him. He’d figured out long since that the transfer must have happened at that point.

“Yes, him. He was on probation for drunk driving and had his license suspended. So—”

“So not only could he not drive, if he missed meeting with his probation officer there’d be a warrant out for him, meaning Tonnoc was stuck until he could invade someone else’s body. You just got to be the lucky one.”

“I was the lucky one,” Wilson said quietly. “House, the cancer is _gone.”_

House swallowed hard against a sudden pressure in his throat. “I know,” he said. “I—” and stopped, unable to find more words.

They were both silent for a moment, and then Wilson resumed. “Daniel said he’d filled you in a little on . . . on the Tok’ra, and . . . what’s happened to me.”

“Daniel? Oh, you mean Jackson. Yeah.”

“He likes you, you know. He says you’ve been helping him with his translation work.”

House snorted. “All I did was point out to him that he’d translated the same symbol two different ways in two different documents. Turned out he’d already caught it; he just hadn’t made the correction yet.”

“Still, you impressed him – he says he’s had students who worked with him for months who wouldn’t have picked that up. You noticed it just from hanging around his office.”

“Stop it,” House said impatiently. “You and your renter didn’t come here to talk about Daniel Jackson. Let’s cut to the chase: when are you leaving?”

“Leaving? House, I haven’t even had a chance to talk to you yet,” Wilson replied, sounding confused.

“Don’t play games. When do you leave? When do you . . . take off in your rocket ship, or walk through the Eye of the Gods, or beam up, or whatever the hell it is you do?”

Wilson stared at him. “Oh! Oh god, House, is _that_ what you’ve been thinking? I . . . wow, no wonder you’re . . . Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Yes. Tonnoc has asked me if I want to blend with him, be his permanent host. We’ve discussed it, and after thinking about it, a lot, I’ve decided it’s not what I want to do.”

“You mean you get a choice?” House asked harshly.

“Of course I do! I thought Daniel had explained – Tonnoc’s not a _Goa’uld,_ he’s an ethical being! Yes, he took me over without my permission, but it was due to circumstances, not because he _liked_ doing it!” Wilson glared at House until he looked away, then went on, “Anyway. I’m not cut out for espionage, sabotage, or any of that sort of thing, and that’s what Tonnoc does. He spends a lot of time in situations that could get him killed without warning, or captured and tortured, and . . . and that’s just not _me_. I wouldn’t ever feel safe, or comfortable – and both parties in a blending have to agree that they can work together, _live_ together. It’s a lot more intimate than just being able to hear each other’s thoughts. He’d _be_ me; I’d _be_ him. It’s just . . . it’s not for me, and Tonnoc respects that. So he’s going to look for another host.”

Relief poured through House in a wave – but then a thought came to him. “What if there isn’t anyone who’s willing?”

“That’s not a problem. One of the members of – one of the base personnel was atta— er, involved in a . . . an accident about five weeks ago that resulted in the severing of the spinal cord at the C5 vertebra, so there’s a possibility right away. And there are probably other patients in that ward who would be interested, at least.”

From complete paralysis to normal movement – but at a price. House’s whole body shuddered; he nearly missed Wilson’s next sentence.

“But that’s not the only reason I want to talk to you. Tonnoc says he wants to . . . repay me for making it possible for him to finish his mission here.”

“Curing you of terminal cancer isn’t repayment enough?”

Wilson chuckled. “Apparently not. Tonnoc says that was just the normal effect of taking me as a host; he regards it as routine maintenance. He’s offered to do something else for me instead, except—” Wilson broke off, looking at House with an oddly intent expression.

“Except what?”

“I . . . wouldn’t be the only one involved.” 

House’s stomach clenched in a combination of desire, dread, and pure terror. He knew without asking what Wilson meant – it wasn’t as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him already, once Daniel Jackson had explained the advantages that hosting a Tok’ra symbiote could offer a human. But the thought of being invaded by . . . _that_ . . . seemed to make his intestines writhe in his body.

Wilson went on, “House, he won’t only stop the pain, he assures me he can grow the leg muscle back, and I believe him. You’d have a normal leg again.”

“I . . .”

“Also a liver in one-hundred-percent perfect condition. _And—”_ Wilson’s expression indicated that he was about to add the cherry to the top of the sundae, “—not only will you no longer be dependent on the Vicodin, you won’t go through withdrawal.”

“Will I eat like a pig, the way you did?” House demanded, trying to distract himself from the combined visions of a normal life and of what he’d have to do to reach it.

“Probably,” Wilson shrugged. “You’re not as underweight as I was, but healing burns calories and he has to have _something_ to work with, especially if he’s re-growing a half-pound or so of muscle mass.”

House sat, rubbing at his thigh, thinking. If life had taught him anything, it was that things like this, incredible things, didn’t happen. Not to him. Not without some flaw, something that made him wish later he hadn’t tried, hadn’t believed in them. Things that seemed too good to be true were invariably neither true nor good, in the end.

But if it worked . . . 

A series of images unfolded in his mind: walking again. Running again. Climbing stairs, playing squash or basketball or lacrosse, all without pain. And here, right here in front of him, was a healthy, cancer-free Wilson – living proof that this time, the miracle could be real.

But the price . . . 

He lifted his head to look curiously at the other man. “What’s it like?” he asked, abruptly. “Being . . . taken over like that?”

“I . . . I don’t remember. There’s an amnesia immediately after the symbiote takes over the host, it’s a kind of . . . defense mechanism for the symbiote. Afterwards, when I was conscious, I had no idea Tonnoc was there. I don’t remember much about the times when he was in control – he was keeping me unconscious, so it felt more or less like I was asleep and having really weird dreams.”

“So then he’s not asleep when you’re in control?”

Wilson looked uncomfortable. “Um, no. I . . . uh, the Tok’ra don’t sleep, House, they don’t need to. And I don’t have any way to knock him out, the way he can do to me.”

“He’s awake and listening to us, then.”

“Yes,” Wilson admitted, “but as I said, he’s ethical. What we say won’t go outside this room.”

“Let me talk to him, then. I have a question.”

Wilson’s eyes glowed white. “Ask,” the metallic voice said.

“Tell me about the Eye of the Gods.”

“The chappa’ai is not a topic I may address at this time,” Tonnoc responded. “We have come to make the offer James mentioned to you; I will not speak of matters outside it." The glow faded away; Wilson blinked once and focused on House. “That was an interesting question.” His tone invited House to tell him more.

“Yeah,” House answered. 

There was a pause. “Okay, then,” Wilson said at last, when it was obvious he’d get no further information, “Getting back to what we were discussing . . . ?”

“I need more time,” House said flatly, “I need to think it through.”

“Why on earth would you even consider passing up this kind of opportunity?” Wilson asked, sounding bewildered.

“Because I can’t be sure which of you just asked me that question.” 

Wilson stood abruptly and went to the door. “Tonnoc doesn’t mean you harm any more than I do,” he said over his shoulder as he left, closing the door crisply behind him.

_Maybe not,_ House thought, _but I notice you didn’t tell me._

* * * * * 

He sat for a while after Wilson had gone, thinking less about the offer Wilson had made him than about what Tonnoc had said in answer to his question. He turned the answer over and over in his mind, looking at it from a variety of angles and finally fitting it into a spot in the overall puzzle he’d found himself caught up in: a puzzle formed from what he’d seen, what he’d been told, chance remarks, and half-finished sentences. The picture that seemed to be emerging was . . . 

He looked at his watch. It was early evening, but there was a chance that Daniel Jackson was still in his office. House grabbed his cane and went out the door, limping briskly in the direction of the archaelogist’s office, his guard dutifully tagging along behind.

Sure enough, his rap at the door got a distracted-sounding “Come in!” in response. Jackson was in the same place he’d been when House had left several hours earlier: planted in front of his computer terminal, surrounded by printouts, pictures and random pieces of paper scrawled with notes and translations. His hair was even more disarranged than it had been, two piles of books had moved from the floor to the desk, displacing a large chunk of rock that had been sitting there, and there was a coffee cup balanced precariously on top of a stack of what looked like ancient clay tablets.

“Where is it?” House asked without preamble.

“Did you leave something behind?” Jackson inquired, without looking up from the screen. “It’s probably around here somewhere – sorry, I’ve been a little busy this afternoon. I just realized that the linear script we found in the ruins of Th’ala’tra is related to what I _had_ thought was a unique set of symbols from An’kesh; so far I’ve found three duplications and at least another five that are clearly variants, but what I _don’t_ know is which of the two is closer to whatever the original language was, since there’s no way to know which settlement is older, and they’re on completely different – ” He seemed to catch himself suddenly “—continents,” he finished, keeping his eyes glued to the screen in front of him.

“I’m talking about the chop-ai,” House replied, doing his best to reproduce the word Tonnoc had used. “The Eye of the Gods. The Interstellar Transporter. The whatever-it-is that you and the other people on this base are using to travel to other planets.”

Jackson’s shoulders twitched. “That’s . . . an interesting theory,” he said, still without looking at House. 

House limped around to face him. “An alien that can’t be from this planet is living in the body of my best friend. You tell me it’s the nice version of another alien species that likes to enslave people, and the enemy of yet a third species that’s running around with some kind of ray gun. You then give me a book, written by you, based on theories that probably got you kicked out of reputable academic circles—” Jackson winced “—but that fit in very nicely with the aliens and the ray guns. Plus, you’re sitting in an office surrounded by a whole bunch of ancient artifacts that have lettering systems I’ve never seen pictures of, not in a single issue of National Geographic. And don’t pretend that the word you were just going to use back there wasn’t “planets”, because I’ll laugh at you.

“I’m a doctor with more than twenty-five years’ experience – there are instruments in that infirmary I’ve never seen, and I worked in one of the best research and teaching hospitals in the country. 

“Wilson didn’t even blink when I mentioned the Eye of the Gods; Tonnoc gave me what has to be the name his people use for it. So what do _you_ call it? Because it has to be on the base here somewhere, doesn’t it? Why else is this such a high-security facility? A little cooperative radar program between us and the Canadians doesn’t rate anything like what you’ve got here.”

“We could be using spaceships,” Jackson offered in a dispassionate tone, his eyes level on House’s.

“You could be – hell, I’m betting you _are,_ but they aren’t based out of _this_ place, because it’s located way too close to a couple of big population centers, and you can only make scoffing noises about UFO conspiracy theorists for so long before people stop believing you and start believing what they’re seeing, if you’re flying spaceships in and out. So it’s got to be something that’s self-contained and can be conveniently hidden underground in a base like this one.”

“You realize I can’t confirm anything you’re saying,” Jackson said quietly. 

“Of course I do. But you can tell me this: Once Wilson gets rid of his freeloading alien snake, what are the odds he and I will be alive a year from now?”

Jackson’s eyes widened and his jaw tightened. “That – that’s insulting. Nobody here is a murderer, no matter what you may think.”

“Right. Maybe I should just have asked what the odds were that anyone on _this planet_ would ever see either one of us again.”

Jackson scrubbed at his face in a way that reminded House suddenly of Wilson, then grabbed for his coffee cup and drained the last dregs. “Look,” he said, “I’m not in a position to – to offer any kind of assurance on that. But I’d say the odds are good that a year from now you and your friend will be alive and well and living on planet Earth. And that’s all I can say for now.”

House looked hard at the other man, who met his gaze with complete calm. Then he nodded, turned, and left, ignoring the guard who trailed him back to his quarters.

* * * * *


	6. Truth -- and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **House is certain he knows what's going on under Cheyenne Mountain. What he doesn't know is what they plan to do with him now that he's made that plain.**

* * * * * 

 

That night, his brain just wouldn’t shut up. He tossed and turned, thinking, pondering, considering – and as a result slept later than normal the next morning. After showering and dressing he was just about to go to the cafeteria for breakfast when there was another knock at his door – this time one with an authoritative cadence to it that made him hasten a bit.

“Mr. Holmes?” the MP sergeant on the other side inquired unnecessarily. When House nodded, the sergeant continued, “the General wishes to meet with you. If you’d follow me, please.”

Damn. He hadn’t really thought Jackson might be some kind of informer – or perhaps it had been last night’s guard. She’d been on the other side of the door, but it hadn’t been latched and he hadn’t exactly bothered to keep his voice quiet. Luckily, his cane was close by; he grabbed it and nodded once more and they set off, with House playing up the limp to gain time to think. 

Odds were good that what he’d said to Jackson last night had been reported up the line, either by Jackson or by the guard. There could no longer be any doubt that he knew too much – and by now, Wilson was definitely in the same position, assuming that any of Wilson was left inside the body that had been his. That knowledge represented a possible threat to a very large, very tightly-run organization that had managed to keep the most amazing secret in all of human history under wraps for several years at least. 

What puzzled him was why General Carter would want to speak to him at all, rather than just delegating the responsibility to a subordinate with orders to see to it that he and Wilson were silenced in one way or another. He was mulling this over, trying to come to some conclusion, when he and his guard reached the general’s office.

The years he’d spent living on and around a succession of military bases meant that House was already prepared for the sort of person who would be in charge of this kind of place. It would be someone like, say, his father, albeit with a more successful career track. Probably a tightass, by-the-book sort. Older (you didn’t get to command a large installation without years put in), and probably with a bit of flying experience – combat pilot, test pilot (this was the Air Force, after all) – followed by plenty of time flying a desk.

General Samantha Carter came as a bit of a shock.

It wasn’t just that she was female – the military had had women in the upper ranks for ages now. It wasn’t that she was a good-looking blue-eyed blonde, although he certainly could have enjoyed the view under other circumstances. No, it was that she was a _lot_ younger than he’d expected – he’d put her somewhere in her early to mid-forties. Which, considering the kind of place she was in charge of, meant two things: she was tough, and she was smart. Otherwise she’d never have survived the kind of situations she must have survived in order to get to where she was.

And right now, she was clearly not happy.

“Take a seat, Doctor House,” she told him, and didn’t react when _he_ didn’t react to the use of his real name. He’d already noticed the thick folder on the desk in front of her and realized the jig was up; clearly either Tonnoc or Wilson had been talking. Warily, he seated himself in one of the chairs on his side of the desk. 

“Okay,” Carter continued, laying a hand on the folder, “a lot of people had a lot to say about you when we asked them. You’re a brilliant, successful, erratic genius with a massive chip on your shoulder when it comes to authority, _and_ you can’t be bothered with rules when they get in your way. You also,” she added drily, “have problems with impulse control.”

House shifted a little in his chair, but managed to stay silent. 

“In spite of that, your former colleagues were unanimous in saying that you got results when no one else could get them, and you routinely solved problems that other doctors and other hospitals had no luck with. All your colleagues – even the ones who didn’t like you – spoke of your abilities with respect. Even awe. Several of them said they were better doctors because of what they learned from you. They all agreed that you were unbeatable at taking pieces of seemingly unrelated information and putting them together to get the right answer. 

“It’s not your fault that the only Tok’ra currently on the planet took your best friend as a host, or that between the three of you you've saved the life of the former commander of this base. But honestly, I’m not sure what to do with you at this point.” She raised her eyebrows, and seemed to be waiting for him to respond.

“You mean you’re not going to take the obvious route,” House answered. “Interesting.”

“If you mean that I’m not going to have the two of you killed and dumped on another planet, you’re perfectly right,” Carter told him, and House blinked at the way she had unerringly zeroed in on the scenario he’d been envisioning. “For one thing, the inhabitants there would probably object, to say the least. For another, as an Air Force officer I’ve never been ordered to commit murder, and I won’t order anyone under my command to do that either. And I won’t have you murdered by proxy. So you can relax, Doctor House – killing you isn’t on the agenda.”

“Then that leaves – ” House started, but the general was already shaking her head.

“Sending the two of you into exile might sound like an answer, but it’s not. Never mind that there are planets where leaving you would be tantamount to murder – they’re uninhabited by humans for a reason – on most of the other ones the inhabitants would, again, object.”

“So you’re just going imprison us here, then. Or somewhere else where no one will be able to find us.”

“Doctor House, imprisoning a United States citizen without trial is illegal. I swore an oath to defend this country and uphold its laws. Besides, I know just how easily someone of your intelligence can make that a really bad idea.”

House stared at her, his mind starting to slot things into new places as the picture he’d thought he was building began to take on a completely different aspect. “You wouldn’t be narrowing your choices in front of me this way if you hadn’t already made up your mind,” he said slowly, working his way through the puzzle. “So . . . I get it. You’re just going to let us go. We could try to tell people about this, but who’s going to listen to us? We’ll sound like a couple of crazy UFO conspiracy nuts – and if by chance anyone _did_ believe us, you could always threaten to blow my fake ID and get me sent back to prison unless we denied everything.”

“That’s one option,” Carter agreed calmly. “Or—”

There was a quick, perfunctory knock and Daniel Jackson put his head in at the door. “Sam? What did he say? Oh, sorry, are you still talking? My bad – I should have waited, but I want to get started as soon as possible, if—”

“Daniel!” Carter sounded more resigned than angry. “Yes, we’re still talking. Can you give us another five minutes? I—”

Before she could finish, everything stopped shifting in House’s brain, all his ideas and speculations and theories suddenly re-forming into a totally new configuration. Staring at the general in utter disbelief, he said, “You want to . . . offer me a _job?”_

“Well!" Carter looked at Jackson. "Now I see what you meant."

* * * * * 

 

“The thing is,” Jackson was saying at his usual rapid-fire pace a few minutes later, “working here, there’s no chance you’ll _ever_ get bored. If it’s challenging medicine you like, trust me, we have plenty. Not to mention –” 

“Not to mention a base commander who would like to make her own job offers, if you don’t mind?” General Carter said tartly.

“Oops.”

“Oops,” Carter agreed. Turning to House, she went on, “As it happens, Dr. Chutterjee wants to transfer to another facility, which means I’m going to need a physician who’s qualified to run the base infirmary. I’ll need someone with a great deal of medical experience. Also, I want someone who can think fast, will take risks when necessary, and who can tackle the kinds of medical problems that are likely to arise in our situation.”

“You’ll also need someone who’s able to dot _i_ s, cross _t_ s, and submit reports and paperwork on time,” House interrupted. “None of which are my strong points. Bureaucracy doesn’t interest me; _military_ bureaucracy especially doesn’t interest me.” 

“Believe me, I’ve already gathered that from your file,” Carter agreed drily. “Which is why I thought I’d offer the position to Dr. Wilson. Do you think he’d be interested?”

House blinked at her, then wondered why he’d somehow assumed she would only have been checking _his_ background. Of course she’d have a whole file on Wilson too, by this time. “He’d be a better choice as far as reports and record-keeping go,” he agreed, “but you and I both know your best option would be to take the two of us as a package deal.”

“Operationally, I can’t fill one vacancy with two people. But,” she went on, as House started to shake his head, “there is another possibility. Daniel?”

Jackson plunged in immediately. “We’ve recently gotten approval for another person in my section. I’ve been asking for an assistant – well, someone who can do what I do when I’m not here – for a while now. I mean, it’s genuinely getting to the point where I need to be in two places at the same time: here, working on translations, _and_ wherever it is the latest dig is going on so I can offer insight on a new culture based on my experience with cultures and languages from other planets. Now, you’re not an archaeologist, but you’ve got a definite knack for languages. You’re obviously good at puzzle solving; you’re a genius, so you’ll pick up on things fast; you’ll have access to all my notes, my entire library and the whole database, so the translating is something you’ll come up to speed on really quickly – and we’ll be working together more often than not anyway, so if there are problems I can help. You’ll love it, it’s just one puzzle after another, but the translation work here isn’t _usually_ time-sensitive, so whenever Dr. Wilson needs you I can release you to work with him in the infirmary.”

“When we spoke with Dr. Foreman,” Carter added, “he told us that you got bored easily. And when you got bored, you got into trouble. You only became fully engaged when you had something medically challenging to work on. The Stargate program can offer you intellectual challenges in more than one arena.”

House stared at her without really seeing her, his mind sorting and weighing possibilities. It would be the military, true – but he wouldn’t have to be _in_ the military, just working for it as a civilian specialist. He could still have medicine, but just the good part, with all the boring stuff taken care of by someone else – one of his lifelong goals. In addition, what Jackson did was just as fascinating in its way as the medicine was – he could use a whole new set of his skills.

But above and beyond everything else was the realization that these people routinely _visited other planets._ If there was anything higher up the scale of Really Cool Jobs, House didn’t know what it would be. 

“So,” Jackson said, “Are you interested? Because if you are, we need to get started quickly; I’m due to head back to P8X-526 next week and I want to at least get you oriented to my cataloging method before I leave, it’s one I had to specially design so that I could –”

“I’m interested,” House interrupted. “But,” he added, “only if we take care of Wilson’s alien snake problem first.”

“You really should meet Jack; I think you and he would get along,” Jackson commented irrelevantly. 

Carter shot him an annoyed look, but her lips twitched. To House, she said, “Tonnoc wants you to know he’s still willing to take you as a host long enough to heal your leg before he goes back to his own people, but it has to be soon. We’ve found someone who’s willing to be a permanent host; once the blending process is complete they’ll be leaving.” At House’s expression she said, “I know it’s a scary thought, but the offer is genuine.”

 _You have no idea how scary,_ House thought to himself. Aloud, he said, “Everyone here seems to think it’s a great idea to let some bizarre alien take over my body. Nobody seems to think about what happens if I can’t get him out again.”

Jackson opened his mouth to speak, but Carter cut him off. “That’s because it won’t be a problem. Daniel’s already told you that Tonnoc did what he did because he was desperate. No Tok’ra would ever stay in a host who wasn’t willing, any more than they would deliberately harm a host.”

“Or so they tell you,” House replied.

“Actually, I’m speaking from experience,” the general told him calmly. “About twelve years ago I was taken as a host by the Tok’ra Jolinar of Malkshur.”

“You’re a – !” House started back in horror. 

“No,” Carter assured him. “We were never blended; Jolinar was attacked by an assassin and died herself rather than let me be killed.”

“It’s true,” Jackson put in. “Look, we wouldn’t be advising you to do this otherwise. And it should only take a day or two at most. In the meantime, Dr. Chutterjee could be giving Dr. Wilson a tour of the infirmary and getting him settled in, so – ”

“In fact, I still need to talk to Dr. Wilson,” Carter cut him off. “Daniel, please take Dr. House back to your office; I’ll call you when I’m done. We can worry about the next step then, when Dr. House has had time to make a decision.”

The dismissal was obvious; both men rose to leave. But before he reached the door, House turned back to look at the general. “You should know,” he told her, “with or without a good leg, I still get into trouble.”

“Most people here do,” she said in a resigned tone, and gestured to him to close the door.

* * * * *

 

Less than twenty-four hours later, House was wondering if he’d finally managed to get himself into too _much_ trouble.

He sat on a bed in the base infirmary, regarding Wilson (Tonnoc?) who stood in front of him, just a little closer to House than was actually comfortable. House locked eyes with the other man, making himself not lean back. “And so that’s all there is to it,” he said, narrowing his gaze. “Just a . . . quick kiss. I didn’t expect the erotic aspect, actually.”

Wilson (?) sighed. “I’ve told you, Tonnoc won’t do this any other way. Goa’uld like to take their hosts through the back of the neck so there will be an obvious scar, a mark of ownership. Tok’ra don’t disfigure their hosts.”

“Because they spend all their time in hiding, spying and going under cover,” House interrupted. “They just want to be harder to spot. No great virtue to that.”

The other man drew a deep breath and huffed it out again, annoyed. “House! If you’ve changed your mind – _again_ – just say so. Quit wasting time.”

House looked away, shifting uneasily. “I’m . . . freaked, all right?” he admitted softly, swallowing. “The idea of a . . . thing that’s not even from this planet worming its way into my brain isn’t exactly appealing, no matter what I’m supposed to be getting from it.”

“I understand.” This time it was definitely Tonnoc speaking. “I can only assure you, again, that you will not be harmed by this.”

“Right.” House glanced up at the observation booth, where Dr. Chutterjee had been joined by both General Carter and Daniel Jackson. He swallowed again, and abruptly lay back on the bed. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Tonnoc nodded, and leaned over him, Wilson’s lips parted. House closed his eyes and opened his own mouth, his heart racing. He’d been told he wouldn’t remember the next few seconds, but he braced himself anyway. There was the soft pressure of someone else’s lips on his – 

– and he was suddenly fighting for his life.

* * * * *


	7. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **How much of what is happening to him is real? House can't be sure.**

* * * * *

 

_**All right. Time to get to work.** _

_Wait. That . . . who was . . .? What?!! No!_

_**You are . . .? You cannot be here!**_

_Can’t be here? This is me! Get out! _

 

It was a violation unlike anything he could have conceived of, his enemy entwined so intimately into his very being that they genuinely occupied one flesh – _his_ flesh. He could hide nothing, conceal nothing, keep nothing away from the intruder. The other was using his body, his _being_ , against him – the familiar patterns of his own thought were wrenched askew, warped and twisted into unrecognizable chaos, and every effort he made to grasp and hold and keep the center of himself together simply showed his foe how he could be defeated. His enemy was himself overthrowing himself, and the center could not hold, was giving way, turning into the other, falling, sliding, slipping away from his own being, sucked into a void, blank darkness, but still he clung, he fought, he clutched stubbornly at the other, dammit if he was falling he would take his enemy down with him, he would _not_ let go, would _not_ stop being _himself!_ – the self he had fought through years to build and create and keep in spite of every attack, every lie, every punishment. _No!_

 _ **You will be injured if you continue this! You must let go!**_

_No. I. WON’T!_

But a wave of unimaginable power, a force beyond any resisting bore down on him – a weight, a pressure, crushing in its brutal ferocity. He was smashed aside, his grip on himself broken as casually as a river in flood rips a boulder free of the encircling earth to roll and tumble it beneath the uncaring rush of water. 

House, drowning, felt himself vanish into nothingness. 

* * * * * 

Wilson staggered for a moment, leaning hard on the bed until the wave of dizziness passed. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and pushed himself upright, keeping one hand on the bed to steady himself, his eyes still closed. Things felt . . . odd, as if there was suddenly more _space_ in parts of himself he’d never even been aware of before. He hadn’t truly realized how crowded it had been inside him until now, when he suddenly had himself to himself again. He could _feel_ his personality re-expanding to fill the internal areas he had been pushed out of. Weird. House would probably . . . 

House.

_House!_

Wilson’s eyes snapped open and he looked down at the other man.

House looked oddly peaceful. Then his face twitched, he wrinkled his nose and opened his eyes. Even though he’d been expecting it, Wilson gasped and stepped back as the other man sat up, his eyes gleaming with the silvery-white glow that masked their usual brilliant blue.

“T . . . Tonnoc?” Wilson swallowed against the soreness in his throat caused by the symbiote’s exit.

The Tok’ra nodded, sliding off the hospital bed to stand up, balancing and shifting his weight experimentally from one side to the other, as if assessing the amount of damage to this body. 

“House,” Wilson said. “Are you – _is he_ – all right?”

Tonnoc inhaled deeply. When he spoke, Wilson was startled all over again at the artificially deep, metallic voice. “I . . . regret to say that there has been a . . . difficulty.”

 _“What?!”_ Wilson said. “What did you – ?”

“Your friend has . . . powers of resistance far in excess of those of a normal human host,” Tonnoc said. “Ordinary hosts easily succumb to the natural anaesthetic my people produce as part of the joining process. Dr. House did not do so.”

“Dr. House was . . . _conscious_ when you took him over?” General Carter said through the microphone from the observation booth. She sounded shocked. “I didn’t think that was possible.” 

“In ordinary circumstances it is not,” Tonnoc assured her. “I have never encountered this situation before.”

 _“What happened to him?”_ Wilson cried. He grabbed the other man by the shoulders, shaking him. “House! Tonnoc, what did you _do_ to him?” Guilt and betrayal roiled in him – he had assured House of his safety, had trusted the word of the creature inside him, and now _this._

Tonnoc stepped back, breaking Wilson’s hold. “I _did_ everything I could not to harm your friend, but he was extremely combative. In the end, I had to exert more force than I wished in order to subdue him. He is still here,” Tonnoc touched House’s temple, “but he is much more deeply unconscious than is normal.”

“ _How_ much more deeply?” Wilson asked, dread in his voice.

“He is in the state your people call _coma.”_

“Can – can you wake him up again? You have to!”

Tonnoc looked at him bleakly. “I do not know,” he replied.

* * * * * 

The group gathered around the table in the Infirmary Briefing Room some hours later was somber. Wilson and Dr. Chutterjee had run every test they could think of, but with Tonnoc occupying his body there was no medical way to determine whether House was even present in his own brain. Tonnoc could only continue to assure them that _he_ could sense House, however faintly. There was still hope.

“But how was this even possible?” General Carter demanded when they had finished going over all the test results. “I’ve never heard of anything that so much as _suggested_ that a human could resist being taken over by one of your people. When I was taken by Jolinar, she was in control from the first instant. I came to later, of course, but I had no chance of withstanding her at the outset.”

“Well,” Jackson commented, “for one thing, if it _was_ possible, the Goa’uld would have taken every care to ensure that word about it never got out.” 

Tonnoc lifted his head to stare at Jackson, his expression the one House always wore when he’d had an unexpected epiphany. Wilson felt his stomach twist, and looked away. 

“You are correct,” the Tok’ra told Jackson. “And you bring to mind a legend I had nearly forgotten. It is said that in the days when the System Lord known as Ra ruled this world, there would from time to time be found slaves who could resist the joining. Such slaves were killed as soon as they were identified, along with any of their bloodline who could be found, so that the trait would die out among the slave races.”

“But it’s been more than five thousand years since Ra was overthrown and the Goa’uld left Earth,” Jackson said. “And in that time . . .”

“In that time,” Tonnoc said, “the trait could well have begun to re-establish itself among your people, even if only a few who carried it were left after the rebellion. If he possessed such a genetic trait, it would account for Dr. House’s ability to resist me.”

“If you _knew_ about this, then why weren’t you prepared for the possibility that House might try to fight you off?” Wilson asked bitterly.

“As I said, it is a legend, told to impress its hearers with the absolute power of the System Lords. It is certain that no slaves capable of such resistance were brought from Earth through the chappa’ai to other worlds. The ability to prevent or even to delay a joining is unknown among the freed slaves of the former Goa’uld Empire.

“Further, my guess would be that the trait is rare on this world even now. After my spacecraft crashed and Lanra was lost to me, I took several temporary hosts on my way here, changing as frequently as I could in order to evade the Alliance. None of those hosts were able to resist in any way, just as you were not.”

“Getting back to the matter at hand,” Carter said, “we need to decide what to do about this. You say you’re still aware of Dr. House, but you don’t know if you can bring him back to full consciousness. You do plan to try?”

“Of course,” Tonnoc said. “But I would advise waiting for a time. Dr. House has a strong personality; the situation may resolve itself naturally. And at present my own energy is low.”

“You’re expending yourself to heal his body,” Carter said. “I understand that, but we need a timeframe.”

Tonnoc tilted his head in House’s characteristic manner when thinking. “Three days,” he said at last. “The internal healing will be established, and there will have been time to re-grow the missing leg muscle. Now, however, you must excuse me.” He stood and picked up House’s cane, wincing with pain as he put weight on the right leg.

“What? Where are you going?” Carter demanded.

“To the cafeteria,” Tonnoc told her. “I am extremely hungry.”

* * * * * 

House groaned and rolled over, sitting up slowly to take in his surroundings. Looking around in the low light, he found he was in some sort of cave, lying on the ground with only a thin pallet between him and the stone floor of the cavern. 

“Well, hello there,” a voice said nearby, “I was beginning to think you were going to sleep for the next several eons.” 

It was hard to say where the light in the cavern came from, but it was bright enough that he could easily see the man standing next to him, a stranger who reached down to offer him a hand up. After a second or two, House took it and was hauled easily to his feet. Instinctively he looked around for his cane, then realized there was no point.

“I’m not really here, am I?” he asked, looking down at his companion. 

“Aren’t you?” the other asked, with a somewhat disturbing smile. He was a short man in his mid-thirties, coming up only to about House’s chin, but wiry and well-built, with sandy hair, a long nose that emphasized an even longer chin, and hazel eyes with a distinct twinkle in them. He wore a long-sleeved beige shirt and pants, a dark brown tunic-length vest, and soft-soled brown shoes.

House looked at him for a moment, then turned in a slow half-circle, taking in the details of the space around them: a kind of cavern created by the intersection of two large tunnels. The walls on all sides had a peculiarly patterned crystalline structure, as if the tunnels had been dug by some kind of technology, not produced naturally.

“I am _very_ tired of this,” he announced to the universe at large. 

“Already?” The man behind him sounded more amused than surprised.

House crossed his arms. “Go ahead,” he said, over his shoulder, “tell me why I’m here and what I’m supposed to be learning this time.” 

“I’ve no idea. You’ve been asleep ever since I found you here.”

At this, House turned back around. “Since _you_ found _me_ here? Who’s hallucinating who?”

“Oh!” the other said, in a tone of surprise. “You think I’m an hallucination, then. How very interesting; what a pity it’s not the case.”

“This _can’t_ be real,” House said, gesturing to the space around them. “Before I woke up here, I was in a hospital bed, waiting for some weird alien snake to slither into my brain. Next thing I know, I’m in this place. You connect the dots.”

“A Tok’ra, was it? Yes, they _do_ look a bit snakelike at that.”

“How do you – wait, cancel that. You’re some kind of figment of my imagination; of course you know everything I know.”

“Well, no I don’t, not really.” His companion chuckled slightly. “And I’m not a figment of your imagination, although I can see why you’d think so. I do know a bit about the Tok’ra, though. But we haven’t really formally met: let me introduce myself. My name is Lanra.”

“You already know who I am, but thanks anyway.”

“You enjoy being difficult to deal with, don’t you? Let me try one more time: I’m not an hallucination, not an imaginary creation of your brain, not someone you’ve just dreamed up. I honestly have no idea who you are, although I can guess that you must be the current host for Tonnoc.”

“Lanra!” House exclaimed. _“That’s_ how I know that name; Tonnoc mentioned losing a host named Lanra when his ship crashed.”

The other man bowed slightly. “That would be me, yes.”

“Then I know I’m hallucinating . . . dreaming . . . whatever. I’d heard the name, so now I’ve conjured up a face to go with it.”

Lanra frowned. “You honestly don’t believe I’m real.”

“I honestly _can’t_ believe you’re real. Lanra is _dead,_ that much I know because Tonnoc said so. I’ve had a number of dead people turn up in my . . . dreams . . . already.”

“It sounds like a rather unpleasant habit to get into. And, if you don’t mind, you still haven’t told me your name.”

House rolled his eyes. “Greg House, and you’d be surprised at how many unpleasant habits I have.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I’m over four hundred fifty of your years old, so not much surprises me anymore – although finding you _here_ certainly did.”

House looked around again at their surroundings. “What is this place, anyway?”

“A set of Tok’ra tunnels, our usual sort of living area. This is my . . . private space. Tonnoc knows – knew – of its existence, but never came here, just as he had a similar place within us where I never intruded. When two beings are literally sharing every single moment’s every thought and feeling, it can be important to have somewhere to go to get away for a bit. This is where I go.”

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” House said ironically. 

Lanra actually smiled at that. “I do like your sense of humor,” he said, easily. “This is actually a side branch of the main tunnels. If you’d like to come with me, I could offer you something a bit less plain than this.” He looked at House over his shoulder as he turned to walk down one of the stone passages.

House shrugged, and followed him.

* * * * * 

The next three days were a hell that Wilson wouldn’t have wished on his worst enemy. 

Intellectually, he knew that it was unfair to blame himself for what had happened to House, but he couldn’t shake off the guilty sense that if he hadn’t pressured the other man, none of this would have happened. In spite of the joint temptations of a whole leg and a pain-free existence, House had been so reluctant to take Tonnoc up on the offer to heal him that he’d changed his mind half a dozen times at least before finally agreeing to do it. Wilson, amazed and joyous at his own complete recovery, had wanted more than anything for House to have the same kind of experience, once the Tok’ra had suggested it.

Now he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Both then, _and_ when he’d tried to help that drunk in the restaurant bathroom. His joy over being cured of cancer was all but wiped out by the possibility that there might be no House for him to share his newly-regained life with. He’d had a taste of that before, during those awful days after the warehouse fire. But then he’d known he was dying, and that his time without House would at least be short. Now, Tonnoc’s complete repair of his entire body meant that Wilson could go on for decades yet, well into his nineties and possibly past the century mark – and every day of it without the man he’d long ago admitted meant more to him than anyone else.

He threw himself into work, learning the ins and outs of the Infirmary, spending hours with Chutterjee and deliberately avoiding Tonnoc as much as possible. The Tok’ra had taken to staying in the guest quarters that had been assigned to House, leaving Wilson with the room they’d been in since their arrival on the base. Wilson would work himself to exhaustion, collapse for a few hours, then get up and start again, doing anything to keep his mind off the guilt and the worry that threatened to consume him every moment he wasn’t distracted.

Worse than all of it was seeing “House” in the Infirmary for daily tests, while knowing that the person inside the body was not his friend. Watching as the limp disappeared and the years of accumulated tension in House’s body vanished along with the pain. Marveling along with Dr. Chutterjee as the cavity in the thigh seemed to fade away almost overnight, replaced by firm, smooth muscle. Going over the tests that showed a strong, healthy, perfectly functioning body, with only the artificially deep voice and the white glow in the eyes to show it didn’t belong to its original owner.

Those, and the snakelike image on the scans, firmly attached at the base of the brain and snuggled along the ventral length of House’s spine.

* * * * * 

“The healing is complete,” Tonnoc announced when they had finished going over the results of that final round of tests.

“Do you . . . are you still aware of House? Is he . . . ?” Wilson trailed off, not sure how he wanted that question to end.

“As I have told you every day, I still sense his presence. His level of consciousness has not changed.”

“Maybe that’s it, then,” Wilson voiced his worst fear. “Maybe . . . maybe he can’t wake up. Maybe . . .” He looked up, startled, as Tonnoc reached out to grasp his wrist.

“If he cannot wake up of himself, then I will help him to do so.” The eerie white gaze burned into Wilson’s eyes. “He is my host. I will not rest until I have restored him to full consciousness.”

“If you can,” Wilson said, almost afraid to hope.

“I must,” Tonnoc replied. “I shall begin now,” and without further preparation he lay down on one of the Infirmary beds and closed his eyes.

* * * * * 

If he had to spend time in a cave somewhere deep in the wayward caverns of his own brain, House thought, at least he’d made up someone interesting to talk to in the meantime. There was nothing for either of them to do _but_ talk. House had noticed immediately that not only did his leg not hurt, nothing else did either. He never got hungry or thirsty, never needed a bathroom, never wanted to sleep. He was as comfortable standing as sitting, but since Lanra had brought them to a cavern with easy chairs, sitting made more sense while the two of them traded stories.

Lanra had turned out to be a fine companion, with a hoard of interesting tales full of drama, adventure and hair’s-breadth escapes. The fact that House had no idea half the time what Tonnoc and his host had been escaping _from_ didn’t lessen the impact. And Lanra also had a sly sense of humor which reminded House of Wilson at times, and which also surprised him – Tonnoc had come off as more than a bit of a serious, no-nonsense type.

“Actually, he has quite the sense of fun,” Lanra said, “under normal circumstances. You have to, you know, in a situation such as ours. He can always give as good as he gets – and you wouldn’t _believe_ the sort of pranks you can play on someone when the two of you are sharing the same body.”

“It’s a little hard to picture him pulling any kind of prank,” House said.

“You weren’t really seeing him at his best, though, were you?” Lanra asked. “It can be a bit hard to be jolly in front of someone who thinks you’ve stolen his best friend, for one thing. And for another . . .” Lanra’s voice went soft, “well, four hundred-plus years is a long time. He’s not used to being on his own any more.”

And Tonnoc really hadn’t had time to grieve for what he’d lost, House thought. He felt a small pang of sympathy for the Tok’ra, then blinked and wondered whether he really _was_ beginning to go crazy. 

During the time they spent in their enforced companionship, House slowly became less and less sure that Lanra was solely the product of his own mind. He was too certain of his own existence, for one thing, and for another he was too _complete_ a person, too distinct from House’s own personality in too many ways. But if he was real . . . 

“So tell me,” House said, sitting in a chair in Lanra’s actual living quarters (which were another crystalline-looking cavern, but one that was brightly lit and comfortably furnished), “if you’re real, why don’t you just let Tonnoc know you’re still around?”

“Don’t think I haven’t tried,” Lanra answered. “But these tunnels are like Tok’ra tunnels everywhere – there’s no physical connection to the surface. The only way in or out is to use the teleportation rings.”

“Teleportation,” House said. “Right. I should have known.”

“When . . . when we crashed,” Lanra said, his voice suddenly hesitant, “it was into one of your planet’s oceans. The ship took on water quickly, and we were too injured to survive. We were discovered just after our ship sank, but it was obvious that my body was too badly injured for Tonnoc to repair, and we would have to separate. I said farewell and came here to wait for the end.”

“And Tonnoc . . . ?”

“Obviously he jumped from our – my – body into the body of one of those who found us.”

“And nobody else noticed this?”

“As you should know, symbiote transfer is very quick – it happens in the blink of an eye.”

“Right.” House flinched a little at the memory. “So, somehow you came with him.”

“I can’t account for my continued existence otherwise. But I also can’t see how it’s possible. I’ve never heard of anything like this happening to any other host/symbiote pair. We’ve always been told that when the host body dies, the host personality dies with it, just as the symbiote’s personality perishes if the symbiote is killed. That was certainly the case with all of Tonnoc's previous hosts. But here I am – and yet every time I try to activate the transport rings, the controls won’t respond.”

“Have you tried lately?”

Lanra looked at him with an odd expression. “I didn’t have to. I heard the rings activate on their own, and when I went to the chamber where the ring platform is, I found you there.”

House raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying you think _I_ turned on your transporter? Because I don’t see how – the last thing I remember was going down under something that felt like a cross between an avalanche and a tsunami.”

“Do you mean to say you remained _conscious_ when Tonnoc took you over?” Lanra exclaimed. “That’s extraordinary!”

“‘Extraordinary.’ Is that how you’d describe it? He came on like a wrecking ball.”

Lanra looked upset. “I . . . that must have been horribly traumatic for you. I can’t imagine – that’s not the way it’s supposed to happen at all! The symbiote produces a natural anaesthesia to facilitate the process, so the host is not distressed. When the host awakens, the blending process can start.”

“Yeah, I was told all that. But we weren’t going to ‘blend’; this was supposed to be a strictly temporary arrangement.”

“I see . . .” Lanra trailed off, looking even more concerned. He was silent for a few moments, thinking. Then he said, “Well. When you first arrived, I completely misinterpreted your presence here. I thought that yours was supposed to be a normal transfer of symbiote to permanent host, but that you – the host – had tried to change your mind when it was too late and were trying to escape from Tonnoc rather than blend with him. Since we’ve been talking, I can see that’s not the case at all. Come on,” he finished, getting up from his chair.

“Where are we going?” House asked.

“Back to the ring chamber,” Lanra replied. “Tonnoc is certainly searching for you, and the rings are the only way he has of getting here.” 

* * * * *


	8. Up From the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Lanra is certain Tonnoc won't give up searching for House. But if he does find House, what happens next? And what becomes of Lanra?**

* * * * * 

Hours.

Tonnoc had been lying there for hours. Not moving, barely breathing.

Chutterjee had finally left for the night. Daniel Jackson and General Carter had both stopped by to offer support before heading out themselves long ago.

Wilson, keeping watch in an uncomfortable metal and vinyl armchair, had moved through all the stages of hope, impatience, uncertainty and helplessness, and was beginning to edge toward despair. He watched the slight rise and fall of the other man’s chest, wondering for the thousandth time whether he should have just gone ahead and hooked him up to a set of monitors. But he hadn’t thought it would take this long.

Although really, when he considered it, he had no way of knowing how long something like this was supposed to take. He could only sit, as he had done so many times before, watching. 

No. There was one thing more he could do. 

Carefully, he reached out to cover one of Tonnoc’s – _House’s!_ – hands with his own. _Come on, House. Wherever you are, come back. I need you._

_I need you._

* * * * * 

“Look,” House said, “this is pointless. We’ve been standing here for – ” He broke off as he realized he had no real sense of how long the two of them had been waiting in the stony corridor. “For ages,” he finished. “What makes you so sure he’s even looking? And if he is, if he hasn’t found _you_ in all this time what are the odds he’ll be able to find _me_ here?”

“He wasn’t looking for me,” Lanra answered quietly. “He had no reason to do so. And he had a mission to complete; he couldn’t spare time for personal considerations even if he’d known of my survival. But he _is_ searching for you. I am as certain of this as I am of my own existence.” He smiled serenely at House. “He won’t stop until he is successful.”

“Stubborn, huh?” House asked, shifting restlessly as he leaned against the wall of the narrow corridor and stared at the ring platform control panel on the opposite side, next to Lanra. It had remained obstinately dark, no matter how many times the other man had pressed the buttons.

“Oh, very,” Lanra agreed. “It’s a trait that’s served us both well over the years, even though there have been times when it’s driven me crazy.”

House had a sudden, vivid image of Wilson, his eyebrows drawn together, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a hard line as he dealt with some of House’s own stubbornesses. Where _was_ Wilson, what was he doing, while House was . . . away? 

Worrying, certainly. Blaming himself, more than likely, for the consequences of something that had ultimately been House’s own choice. It wouldn’t be the first time; people don’t change.

But also, House was certain, not giving up. Not while there was any shred of hope. And when there wasn’t . . . 

He shook himself away from that line of thought and looked for something to focus on instead. The control panel caught his eye again, and he stepped across the corridor to examine it more closely. Each of the six rectangular buttons had a different marking on it; from the time he’d spent in Jackson’s office he could tell they were all Goa’uld symbols, but that was as far as his knowledge went. 

“So tell me again how this is supposed to work,” he said to his companion. 

“If it _were_ working,” Lanra replied, “pressing the top button on the right would engage the power supply for the panel, and the two triangular sections above the buttons would light up.” He suited the action to the words, but nothing happened, just as nothing had happened the last several times. “Then, pressing the two top buttons on the left side, in sequence, would activate the system. We’d have about fifteen seconds to get onto the platform, if we were transporting out.” 

The “platform” was simply two large concentric circles about nine feet across that had been cut into the rock floor of the chamber, matching another set cut into the ceiling. 

“What if somebody was transporting in?” 

“The power supply would have to engage to make that possible; but, as you can see, it won’t.”

Idly, House ran his fingers over the panel, lightly tracing the symbols incised into the smooth buttons. Then, for the hell of it, he pushed the top right button himself.

Instantly, the two dark triangles above the panel burst into golden light. House snatched his hand away as if it might be burnt, stepping back hastily and looking at Lanra in consternation. Before the other man could say anything, an angry droning noise filled the chamber, as if some immense hornets’ nest had been awakened within the rock walls. The drone took on a tinny edge, and House backed away from the opening in shock as a set of giant metal rings dropped from the chamber ceiling with a humming, stuttering metallic clangor, forming a column with about a foot of space between each ring. Searing white light raced down the inside of the column with an eye-watering brilliance and an enormous hissing sound. Then it vanished, and the rings rose back into the ceiling and disappeared. 

The whole thing had taken about ten seconds, and it was not until it was over that House realized the chamber was no longer empty. A man stood in the center of it with his back to them. The new arrival turned around, and House looked from him to Lanra and back again.

The two men were identical, down to the clothes they wore.

For several seconds, all three of them stood staring at each other. Lanra was the first to recover.

“You see?” he said quietly to House. “I knew he wouldn’t give up.” He was smiling proudly at his twin in the center of the transport chamber.

_“Lanra?”_

At the exclamation, House realized with surprise that he recognized that voice – it was the one he’d been hearing from Wilson since Tonnoc revealed himself. _But why – oh, of course. That’s the body he’s seen in every mirror for hundreds of years; it’s how he perceives himself by now, and this is all happening in my – our – head anyway._

_“Lanra!”_ There was an almost heartbroken quality to that joyous cry. “This – this can’t be possible! You are _dead!”_

“It’s a long story,” Lanra replied, and then he was moving toward Tonnoc, arms open to embrace him. Tonnoc stepped into that embrace – and vanished.

Lanra staggered for a moment, and House jumped forward to support him. “What the – ?” he began, but Lanra put a hand up, and he stopped.

“Oh,” Lanra said softly, and then, “Ohhhhh” – a long note of realization. He blinked a few times, and looked at House, a smile beginning to light his narrow face. 

“What happened to him?” House asked, looking around. “Where did he go?”

“Nowhere,” Lanra answered, and then, “here.” He touched his temple. “We are together again,” he announced, and now the voice was Tonnoc’s. “This is . . . something I had not dreamed could be. It _cannot_ be, and yet it is. We are both here.” The smile was broadening, and the white light in his eyes was a blaze of triumph. “We are _both_ here!”

The joy in his voice was so great that House found himself smiling back. Then Tonnoc gestured to him. “Come. Stand here, in the center of the platform. It is time that you also were reunited with your friend.” Once he had House properly positioned, the Tok’ra swiftly pressed the transport activation sequence on the control panel and rejoined him.

House heard the droning hum begin to fill the chamber; then there was a burst of white noise and white light and he felt himself dissolving away.

* * * * * 

Wilson, nodding and nearly asleep in the uncomfortable chair, jerked awake as the man on the bed drew a sudden deep breath, then another, and the hand he’d been holding twitched and gripped his hand hard. He caught his own breath as the blue eyes opened.

Blue eyes. No hint of the white light that had been in them ever since Tonnoc had occupied his friend’s body.

“House?” he ventured, barely able to believe it – and House nodded, looking into Wilson’s eyes and smiling a little. He sat up, his hand still holding Wilson’s tightly.

“I’m ba—,” he started to say, and then his voice cut off and his eyes widened. Dropping Wilson’s hand, he grabbed at his right thigh, running first his fingers and then the heel of his palm over it with an expression of disbelief. Wilson rose from the chair with a grin, his own stiffness forgotten as he watched House scramble off the bed to stand up, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, then doing deep knee bends and lunges. The disbelief gave way to amazement and then to incredulous delight when there was no pain at all. But suddenly House’s expression changed, and he stared at Wilson accusatorily. 

“How long?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp.

“How – you mean, how long were you out?” Wilson replied uncertainly, his smile fading. At House’s nod, he said, “Three days, more or less. But, House – ”

“But _nothing!”_ House said in a tone of vast annoyance. “You mean to tell me Tonnoc was stuffing my face for three whole days, and I _missed_ it?” 

Wilson gawked at him in shock for several seconds – and then both of them nearly collapsed laughing.

* * * * * 

A few days later it was House who leaned over a bed in the Infirmary to press his lips to those of the young African-American woman who waited there. When he staggered and blinked, Wilson laid a hand on his shoulder until he recovered himself and stood up. 

“There,” Wilson told him. “That’s all there is to it. Tonnoc, how are you doing?” 

The patient had already opened her eyes, displaying the now-familiar white light. “Aside from her paralysis, Airman Dougherty is in excellent health. Healing this body will take little time,” she said, the symbiote’s voice distortion lighter but still noticeable. 

Wilson and Chutterjee were carefully detaching the electrodes that had been fastened to House’s scalp. There had never been a chance to observe or record a Tok’ra transfer with any kind of scientific equipment before, Chutterjee had explained, and a number of the medical staff at the base were deeply interested in the mechanics of the event. All four participants had willingly agreed to the process; the electrodes on Dougherty’s head would remain until the blending of her personality with Tonnoc’s was complete.

“Can we speak to Dougherty yet?” General Carter asked from the Observation Booth when a few more minutes had passed. Tonnoc closed her eyes, and when they re-opened the light had disappeared. “How are you doing, Airman?” Carter inquired. 

“It’s . . . weird, ma’am,” the the young woman answered in her usual voice, then, “Oh! Oh, my god – I can feel my – my _fingers!_ Oh . . .” She was still unable to move, but her eyes strained downward, trying to see her hands. Silently, House took them in his and lifted them into her line of sight, then squeezed them gently. 

A brilliant smile broke over her face, even as tears spilled down her cheeks. “ _Yes!_ Yes, I can feel that! Oh, thank you, thank you so much!”

House, instead of pulling away as Wilson expected, looked down at her and gave a quick nod, his eyes smiling a little. “Take good care of each other,” he said, carefully replacing her hands on the bed.

“We will,” she told him, and her eyes flickered white again for an instant. “We all will,” Tonnoc assured them. 

* * * * * 

It had been a wild few weeks, House mused as he leaned back against the headboard of their hotel bed. Not quite a month ago, Wilson had been dying of cancer and House had been a fugitive under an assumed name. Then they had come back from dinner at Henry’s Bar & Grill with an unsuspected passenger – and now everything had changed for all of them. Tonnoc and Dougherty (and Lanra), their blending complete, had returned to the Tok’ra homeworld. Airman Dougherty, Carter had explained, would show as on “detatched duty”: reporting back to earth for debriefing at regular intervals, but otherwise working with and for the Tok’ra. 

He and Wilson had been invited to see Tonnoc and her new host off, which meant that they’d finally been introduced to the chappa’ai, known in English as the Stargate. It looked almost innocuous, like a carved stone ring full of blue water – except that it stood vertically and was actually full of the event horizon of an artificial wormhole. To House’s surprise and slight discomfort, Dougherty had hugged each of them tightly before fading back and ceding control of their joint body first to Lanra and then to Tonnoc, both of whom had thanked House for his role in reuniting them. Then House and Wilson had watched in amazement as Tonnoc strode into the blue energy field of the Stargate, and vanished.

The week and more of incredibly boring orientations that followed were a considerable letdown. Wilson tolerated them with patient good humor; House stoically endured them and kept his mouth shut. But at the end of the last training session, he suggested that since they had a weekend coming up, the two of them should finally finish their interrupted journey to Taos, and Wilson had eagerly agreed.

And so here they were, at the Pueblo Inn. The place looked more than a bit like a kitschy adobe tourist trap, but appearances were deceiving: it was in fact an excellent motel, complete with a beautiful swimming pool, a hot tub, rooms filled with hand-made furniture by local artisans and art by local artists, and a complimentary breakfast that rivaled the one at the Apple Inn. Their room even had a fireplace, with a small bundle of wood and kindling ready at hand. 

House stretched his legs luxuriously, automatically running his hand over the right thigh. He would never cease to be thrilled by the sight and feel of the restored muscle there, never stop enjoying the total freedom from pain. The two of them had walked the length of La Vista Verde Trail earlier that afternoon, out and back for a total of nearly two and a half miles, and he wasn’t even stiff. Tomorrow they were headed out to Taos Pueblo, and he was able to look forward to exploring the many levels of the town, instead of dreading the stairs and ladders that would likely be part of the tour.

His life had made a sudden and radical change for the better. So, naturally, he couldn’t stop obsessing about the single uncertain factor in all of this. 

Wilson was flicking through channels on the small television, managing to skip past anything that looked as if it might be the least bit interesting before finally settling on some kind of home improvement program. “Give me that,” House said, and snatched the remote out of his hand.

“I thought the arrangement was that we were sharing the remote fifty-fifty,” Wilson remarked.

“That was when you were dying of cancer. Now that you’re all better, things go back to normal,” House announced. 

Wilson snorted. “ ‘Normal’? So, ‘normal’ is you with the remote, and me living with your choices?” 

House made a you-know-that-already face at him as Wilson continued, “But you always say normal is boring! And god forbid you should be bored.” He made an unsuccessful grab for the remote, but House held it out of his reach and turned the television off.

“Hey!” Wilson protested. House tossed the remote onto the night stand on his own side of the bed, where it skittered across the surface and fell into the narrow space between the stand and the wall. 

“You get to pry that out of there,” Wilson told him. “And if you don’t like the Kitchen Cousins, you could have just said so.”

“Is this what you really want?” House asked, abruptly.

“The . . . remote? Or are we suddenly having a completely different conversation?”

House looked at him impatiently. “The job. The whole working-with-space-aliens-in-a-secret-military-bunker thing.” He had to know. Had to know, so that he’d be prepared when Wilson – he broke off the thought and intensified his stare at the other man.

Wilson’s expression suggested that House had suddenly started speaking in one of the languages Jackson studied. “House, it seems ideal,” he said in a careful tone. “It could almost have been custom-made for you. Are you . . . are you having second thoughts?”

He wasn’t. Wilson was right, the position was ideal, or close to it, for him. Challenges of more than one kind. Genuinely intelligent coworkers. _Really_ interesting medicine. The daily possibility of weird and fascinating situations he didn’t have to concoct himself. Almost everything he could want in a job.

Almost. 

“I’m having . . . thoughts,” he said at last.

There was a moment’s silence, and then Wilson seemed to slump just a little. “Okay,” he said, and House could hear the slight strain under his voice, “Okay, House. If this doesn’t look like it will work for you after all, then we keep looking until we find something that does.”

“Right. Because there are so many jobs out there for a doctor living under an assumed name, who’s over fifty, can’t prove he has a medical degree, has no real work background and doesn’t play nice with others.”

“Which is why _this_ job seems close to perfect,” Wilson replied, clearly frustrated.

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t work for me. What I asked was whether it’s what _you_ want.” 

“Oh,” Wilson said, and then, “ohh.” He looked at House for a long, serious moment. “I get it. You’re afraid I’ll leave.”

“It’s not – ”

“But you don’t have to be,” Wilson overrode him, “because I won’t.”

“Then you’re an idiot. You’re healthy. You have family, friends, a decent reputation in your field – you could work anywhere.” _So there’s no reason for you to stay_.

“Why _not_ work here, then?” 

“It’s not even in your specialty, for one thing.”

“Does it occur to you that maybe I’m getting a little _tired_ of cancer? Because it’s sure occurred to me. I won’t mind a change, House. It’s still medicine, even if it’s not oncology.”

“ ‘In a hole in the ground there lived an oncologist’,” House said. “How long before you get tired of spending your entire life in a bunker?”

“Who says we have to do that? The other civilian personnel live off-base and drive in to work every day, why couldn’t we? We’ll buy a house somewhere within a decent commute and get a car.”

_“‘We’,”_ House said, his eyes never leaving the other man’s. _“A_ house. _A_ car.”

“I told you,” Wilson said, his tone steady, serious. “I’m not leaving you.”

“But you don’t—” 

“House,” Wilson sighed. “You gave up everything for me. You _died_ for me – you, the man who lived in the same apartment and drove the same car for over twenty years, who wouldn’t let them change the carpet in your office even when it had bloodstains on it, who lied, cheated, manipulated, and coerced your staff into coming back and working with you because you were used to them. You, the man who hates change, threw away your entire _life_ – because I needed you.”

House looked away, then back, his throat tightening.

“We’ve spent the last five months being together pretty much every minute of every day and night.” Wilson’s voice got softer. “And in all that time you – you haven’t _said_ you loved me, but it’s been in everything you’ve done for me. Every single thing. And now –” Wilson paused and took a deep breath, then resumed, louder, holding House’s eyes with his own, “Now I’m going to live. And I don’t want any part of a life that doesn’t have you in it, not unless you want it that way. And probably not then, either.

“So,” Wilson went on, “we’ll buy a house. We’ll buy a car. We’ll keep the bikes, and we’ll ride on weekends. We’ll run. We’ll go mountain climbing. We’ll – ” 

“We’ll have wild, passionate sex every night,” House interrupted, more to distract himself from the pressure building in his chest than for any other reason. _“Together,_ in case you were wondering.” 

Wilson didn’t miss a beat. “I’m a bit out of practice; but sure, if you want.” His eyes twinkled at House’s astonished blink. 

“After all,” he added with a small, secretive smile, “I wouldn’t want you to get bored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** While I've been a passionate fan of _House, M.D._ for several years, I'm still relatively new to _Stargate: SG-1._ This story couldn't have happened without the support and assistance of my partner, who acted as my beta reader and editor. She is a long-time _SG-1_ fan and worked hard to be sure I got the characterizations right for the _Stargate_ canon characters who appeared here. I have used a certain amount of author's license in dealing with a few aspects of the _Stargate_ universe: for that, and for any and all errors in that universe (or the _House_ universe, for that matter) which appear in this story, I am entirely to blame.


End file.
